Driven By Fate(36)

…

Porter shook off the nagging, residual rage at seeing Francesca knocked to the ground. The moment continued to replay in his head, determined to drive him to lunacy. God help him, if she weren’t leading him toward her home, glancing up at him with the silver eyes he’d missed to the point of agony, he’d be pummeling the son-of-a-bitch into the pavement. He’d held himself back, though. How? The danger of scaring Francesca, of giving her another look at what lay just beneath his surface, represented the equivalent of ten men holding him off.

She fumbled with her house key and mumbled under her breath, fidgeted with her hair. Porter stared in amazement. Not possible. She couldn’t actually be nervous. And not nervous in the way that would slay him, either—no fear that he might hurt her or overstep his bounds again. This seemed different. These were nerves a young woman might get when bringing a date home. Jesus Christ. He stood there ready to beg for another chance as her Dominant and she couldn’t even guide a key into a lock.

“Are you expecting your uncle home soon?”

Finally, she managed to open the door. “Ahoy, Captain Obvious.” She laughed. “No, actually. He’s at a Jets game. That doesn’t mean you can get it.”

“Get it.” He followed her into a bright, homey kitchen, complete with white curtains and cutlery hanging above the stove. “Is that some brilliant American phrase I’m not aware of?”

“It means—” Her explanation cut off off when he came up behind her, settling his hands on her hips. “It means can you—”

“Push extra deep…” He released a hot breath beside her ear. “Drive us both out of our minds?”

“Y-yeah.”

He tucked her backside into his lap, let her feel the erection she’d inspired. “Then yes, I most certainly can get it.”

She moaned and fell forward, planting her hands on the kitchen table. “I’m not giving in this easily.” Ah, but her ass worked his dick like a paid dancer, grinding on him until he thought he might come in his f*cking pants.

He cupped her hot * through the denim. “There’s nothing easy about this perfect part of you. I’ve barely got room to move as it is and then you tighten up on me.” His teeth raked down her neck. “Sweet and petite, aren’t you? All for your lord.”

Porter unsnapped her jeans, dying, ready to give up everything he owned in this world to be inside of her, but she went stiff. Her drags of oxygen echoed in the kitchen, same as his.

“Please, I need to go slower. It’s always so fast with you and I have no time to think. I’m so mad at you, Porter.”

As she should be. Working to rein himself in, he released the snap of her jeans. In the last ten minutes, he’d experienced such vast leaps of emotion, more potent than he’d ever felt in his life. Rage, desperation, lust. As if she’d unlocked something inside him as sure as she’d unlocked the door. Only he didn’t know how to close it again, or if he wanted to. One thing he wanted more than anything was for her to feel safe with him, under no pressure.

Try not humping her against the first available object, mate.

He eased away with gritted teeth. “Let’s see about that cup of coffee.”

“Coffee.” She turned and sucked in a breath at whatever she saw on his face. “I’ll make it Irish and add a little whiskey.”

“Capital idea,” he muttered.

She moved about the kitchen using the same grace with which she drove her cab—efficient and yet somehow with great enjoyment. When she’d told him about cooking for her uncle and his friends, he’d pictured her slaving away like some painfully sexy version of Cinderella. He could see now that he’d been wrong. She loved this, doing for others. A piece of her heart resided in that kitchen, another in the cab. Who would claim the rest? A decent man with a blue collar and a respectable bank account who would take her out once a month on date night. That was her dream. What was he doing here?

He accepted the mug of coffee she handed him, inhaling the interlacing scent of whiskey and crushed berries, courtesy of Francesca standing so close. Rain started to beat on the roof, although he had no idea when a storm had gathered, hadn’t been aware of anything but her. They hadn’t bothered turning on a light upon entering the kitchen and now the space grew even dimmer, a product of the dark clouds outside. He had to concentrate on not reaching for her, pulling her down onto his lap.

“You want to come upstairs?” The sound of rain nearly swallowed the husky question. “I’m going to take a shower.” She ran a finger over the blood on his chest. “How did you shower with this? You smell too clean to have gone without.”

“I put my hand over it.” He demonstrated, very aware of the organ beating double-time beneath his palm. “Like this.”

“Oh.”

Porter stood, trying not to crowd her, but it was goddamn hard. His instincts were to overwhelm her senses. To trap. Make demands, not requests. Soon. “I’d…like to come upstairs.”

“You’re going to snoop through my room while I’m in the shower, aren’t you?”

“I’m going to make every attempt not to.”

A smile played around the edges of her mouth. “Liar.”

Porter watched her bottom lift and sway as they ascended the stairs. She was dressed like a bloody ragamuffin in the dirty white tank top she’d worn beneath the hockey jersey. Argyle socks with a hole in the big toe. What he wouldn’t give to see her in a dress. Immediately, he snatched the wish back. If she started wearing dresses, he’d have a wealth of other concerns on his plate, concerns that were only his for a limited time, until he left. Then he’d be across the ocean without a clue as to what she’d worn on any day or who saw her in it.