Wicked Sexy Liar (Wild Seasons #4)(42)
And what the f*ck, Margot, really? This is a perfect example of what happens ninety percent of the time: a woman approaches me, in a bar, and clearly wants to get laid. And yet I’m the one who needs to evaluate his actions?
Come to think of it, I feel pretty great after a week of downtime, after the interaction with Ansel. Maybe what I really needed was some closure with the Mia situation, some better way to let that ship sail. Margot is right: it’s good to know Mia is happy, to know that she’s living a life that she chose, that she’s built. After I talk to her directly, I’ll feel even better.
The nameless brunette walks me toward her Camry and unlocks the door. She has a great chest, toned legs, and a full, f*ckable mouth. “Want to ride along or follow me?”
But there’s no sparkle in her eyes, no fire, no quick tongue and teasing smile. No dimples. I close my eyes against the image of London. London was just a trigger, a catalyst, a shove. I need to clear the air with Mia, and in order to do that, I had to feel something first. London made me feel something, however brief; I know that now.
But I also know that if I drive myself, I’ll drive myself home.
“I’ll ride with you.” I open the passenger-side door and look across the top of the car at her, pointing to my chest. “Luke.”
She laughs, nodding her head like what I’ve said is really obvious. “I know, silly.”
And then she climbs into the driver’s seat.
Okay.
I lower myself in beside her and before I even have my seat belt buckled she cups my junk, leans across the console, and whispers, “I want you to come all over me.”
Pulling back, I force a smile as I try to hide my mild revulsion. I mean, it’s a hot image and usually I like when girls are honest about what they want, but this one lacks all subtlety. She’s jumped from introductions to straight-up porn.
Her hand is all over my thigh as she drives, from my knee to my hip and then over my dick and she rubs and rubs, half-chafing, half-pleasurable. I have to close my eyes every time she touches me so I can feel it.
Otherwise, I’m oddly numb. Is it her? Is it me? I feel like I’m watching this happen from the hood of the car, looking through the windshield.
She does a tiny striptease at every red light, and with every button she unfastens, the question pounds in my temples:
What is your name?
What is your name?
What is your name?
It matters. Would it have mattered two weeks ago? It might have been funny; a story I shared with the team about the-time-I-f*cked-a-girl-at-her-place-and-never-got-her-name. But now not having a name only makes me uneasy. London made it matter.
I squeeze my eyes closed again and my stomach lurches as she careens into a parking spot, tires squealing as she stops.
Her building is only about a half mile from my place, and once inside the lobby she presses me against the stairwell, kissing me, smearing lip gloss on my chin and mouth. Each time she pulls away, it feels like a sticker being peeled from my skin until all the lip gloss is gone and it’s finally her soft mouth, the feel of real skin on skin. She’s making these tiny giggling moans every time I grab her ass, dig my fingers into her waist. I switch it up, hating this sound she makes because there’s nothing genuine about it, nothing honest.
Turning, she takes my hand and leads me up one flight of stairs to apartment 2A, and I’m shaken by a wave of déjà vu. She rubs her ass against my crotch as she bends to unlock the door and then turns, pulling me inside by the hem of my shirt. I look behind her into the apartment and concerned awareness warms my neck, my face.
I’ve been here before.
I look at her face—her lip trapped between her bleached-white teeth, her eyes hooded and seductive—and I suddenly need her to tell me her roommate isn’t home, her roommate is asleep. Something.
I’m terrified that I’ve f*cked the roommate, and that she’ll show up and find me here and it’ll turn into a complete nightmare.
“Do you live alone?” I finally manage.
She shakes her head. “Melissa’s at work.” Now her eyes glint. “Why? Do you think she should join in? She’ll be home at midnight.”
I exhale in relief. That’s two hours from now. “I’m good like this.”
She gives me a wolfish smile and grabs my belt loop before turning and pulling me down the hall behind her.
In her bedroom, she shoves me against the wall and grabs the collar of my shirt, ripping the buttons off. It’s so comical, so over-the-top that I want to laugh. This girl is all Blue Steel Porn Star. I stare in bewilderment as she starts to strip, whipping me across the chest with her shirt, wiggling out of her jeans, dragging her panties down my chest.
I have the most ridiculous thought: if Margot could see this moment, she would be on her ass laughing. It’s so funny, so absurd that I want to be laughing with her.
But God, that is not helping get my dick hard.
I close my eyes and let go, give in to the rush of hooking up with a complete stranger. Her hands are determined and rough, scratching down my chest, jerking my jeans down my hips. On her knees she’s everything women think men want: all tongue and teeth, big eyes focused on my face, sucking and popping and cooing on my dick.
Condom on. She wants to ride me. I’m hard in a desperate way, like I might lose desire, not like I might go off in a flash. Her sounds are over-the-top and all for my benefit: gasping, screaming, little growls about how big my dick is, how she’s going to come all over it, how she wants me to f*ck her sore and then something incomprehensible. Her hands are in her own hair, pulling in the agony of the pleasure of it.