Heartless (Chestnut Springs, #2)(62)

I want to stay with him.

“Maybe you should just act like an adult and report back so that I don’t have to worry . . .” he trails off before adding, “about you waking Luke up.”

The fucking balls on this guy.

“Not wanting to wake Luke up is the only reason I’m not reaming you out right now, Eaton. And if we’re going to talk about acting like adults maybe you should text me instead of my best friend.”

He stands, brushing his hands over the ass of his pants—looking annoyingly good as he does—before he turns his back on me. Then he tosses out over his shoulder, “Luke’s with my dad, so you can go ahead and have your tantrum over that if you need to.”

My jaw drops and my voice rises. “You’re worried about me coming home late and waking him up, but he’s not even here?”

He continues walking, but I dart after him, jogging up the steps as I toss my purse on the deck near his bare feet. “Cade! I’m talking to you. Which is lucky, considering you just handed me over to your friend, like I’m some sort of goddamn toy to share.”

That stops him in his tracks, the muscles in his back held taut. Everything about his body screams predator. It screams get away from me, but I’m too impulsive to heed a silent warning like that. I step closer, closing the space between us, letting his pine scent wrap around me—letting it intoxicate me.

“You think I’m just some bimbo you can pawn off on friends?”

He spins now, all fire and brimstone. “I think I can’t get you out of my head, no matter how hard I try. I think you’re too damn tempting and that I’m too damn complicated. I think you smell like him, and I can’t fucking stand that.”

I blink, letting my eyes scan his red cheeks, the flare in his dark eyes, the way his nostrils rise and fall under the weight of his labored breathing.

“The gall. The absolute gall to complain that I smell like the man you shipped me off with, who was nothing but a gentleman. The man who, under different circumstances, I might have had fun with because he’s a fun fucking guy. But instead, I spent all night stewing over you, Cade Eaton. You and your grumpy fucking face, and your stupid broad shoulders, and round Wrangler ass. So . . . fuck you.” My finger pokes him in the center of his rock-hard chest. “And double fuck you for being jealous when you have no right. If I smell like him, you smell like bullshit.”

I spin away, but Cade is faster. His hand shoots out and wraps around my arm, stopping me in my tracks. I jolt around to face him, my body drawing into his so naturally.

“Keep talking like that and I’m going to fuck the filth right out of your pretty mouth.”

I arch a brow at him as goose bumps break out over my body. The air between us sizzles. “Excuse me?”

He swipes the back of his hand over his mouth, like he’s pulling away the filter that’s been there all along. “You heard me, Red. You keep barking at me like that and I’m going to put you on your knees, open those strawberry lips, and fuck your face just to shut you up.”

My mind whirs. The man before me is not the same man I’ve been living with this past month. This is another version of him. A version he’s hidden. A version I can work with.

A version I like.

The words sound harsh, but I know Cade well enough to know his words are often frustrated, but his hands are always gentle.

Holding his burning glare, I slowly drop to my knees in front of him, tipping my chin up to see every flicker of emotion in his eyes. “I fucking dare you.”

A muscle in his jaw pops. I know he’s standing on the precipice, but he’s holding himself back. I’m not some virginal little girl. I know when a man wants me.

And Cade Eaton wants me.

He just needs to let himself take me.

So I give him a nudge. I lick my lips and open my mouth wide, tongue held flat, eyes melded to his. The most brash invitation in the world.

“Fuck,” he mutters and steps forward with authority, all shreds of restraint seeming to snap and fall around us. My core clenches, and my chest almost vibrates with anticipation. When he runs one broad palm over the back of my head while standing above me, I hum with pleasure.

“You are fucking torture, Willa Grant.” He drops the glass on the deck behind him, and it lands with a heavy thud, miraculously not breaking against the wood. And then the pads of his fingers are on my lips, tracing, touching, pressing.

I’ve served myself up on a platter to him, but he’s not diving in yet. He’s savoring. And based on the bulge in the front of his pants, he likes what he sees.

“Fucking torture.” He slips two fingers into my mouth, running them along my tongue, just to the edge of where I feel like I might gag. “A man can only take so much before he snaps.”

My lips wrap around his digits in response as my palms flatten against his jeans for balance, eyelids dropping slightly as I do. I’m feeling a little too vulnerable, a little out of my league—a little shy. But this is what I wanted.

I wanted him to snap.

“Suck, Willa. Prove to me you’re good enough for the job and maybe I’ll give you my cock.”

I moan, his words both drugging me and angering me. The challenge in what he’s said is clear, and I’ve never been one to back down from a challenge.

I take it and brace against his muscular thighs, sliding my lips up and down the length of his fingers. I can almost taste the bourbon on them.