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But he sets me on my feet, still boxing me in. A haze of conflict flickers in his eyes. It can’t be about my virtue because he’s simply not that guy. And I think he’s aware that my purity ship sailed into the night long ago.
My fingers are still tucked into the waist of his jeans, grazing the leaking tip of his dick. I salivate with a thirst to sample that dollop of precum while he works through whatever is plaguing him now.
His hand flies to my wrist, trapping it there, and the muddy midnight-forest gaze returns. “You have to earn my cock, Carver. And you’re not even close.”
Upon the conclusion of that galling sentence, his lips twitch, resulting in a haughty, triumphant smirk.
Asshole.
I’d like to say I have a snappy comeback, a readied retaliation. Sadly, I do not. I’m failing women everywhere because that was a dick move and deserves a lashing. But all I have is my silence and the realization of how stupid I’ve been mocking me. I would’ve fucked him right here, behind a barn, where anyone could have walked up on us.
Why did that make so much sense in the heat of the moment? The idea actually excited me.
This was payback. Was the whole somber-cigarette-smoking tantrum part of it? He’s detail-oriented—I’ll give him that. He wanted to fuck me at La Lune Noire, and I wasn’t having it. Not after over a week of him being so rude to me—make that months or always. What did he think? That I’d just forget it all and screw him in an out-of-service resort elevator?
In all fairness, I have been goading him. And I’m not above having respect for a worthy opponent. Anger has no place here. I need strategy. Shrewdness.
Always keep them guessing.
Rule number three: A lost battle is not a lost war. It is imperative to let the conniving bastard, who nearly made me climax from a barnyard kiss, believe he’s the victor and that I’m a good sport. Then, he’ll never see me coming.
I smile big and bright, dipping my chin in reverence. “That was fun. Well played, Graves. Ready for dinner?”
His eyes crease in bafflement, his smirk bleeding into full-blown amusement. “Still hungry, huh?”
Patting his solid bicep, I proffer a provocative wink and make a show of licking the coating of precum off my thumb. “Starving,” I quip, sauntering over to the motorcycle. “I could go for some fries. The thick, salty ones. And maybe a meaty sub. A corn dog. Or even a shish kabob.”
He’s not the only one who can hurl double entendres with style.
He belts out a ring of laughter—the canorous bellow ricocheting off the refurbished barn and weeping trees to fill the gaping hole in my chest in a way it shouldn’t.
Don’t let it.
He reaches for our helmets, but I twist to get Rex’s attention. Arnold is already back in the car, but Rex, Keith, and Dante are awaiting my okay.
“I’m good, and you know the drill,” I call out to them with a subtle wink.
Rex smiles, deadpanning, “We know, Cee. Saw nothing. Heard nothing. You’re an angel.”
Keith chuckles, his brown eyes conveying that he’s half amused and half stressed. “It’s certainly never boring, Celeste.”
“Aww, you’re the best guards a girl could have,” I commend them.
“Not our first cover for you,” Dante says, enhancing my menacing intent for this conversation, so I finish his sentiment with a wry grin.
“Won’t be the last.”
When I turn back to Liam, a savage glare has replaced his haughty smirk.
Hmm. Was it something I said?
LIAM
In order to block out the cyclone of convoluted reflection that walloped me yesterday, I’ve poured myself into work this morning. It’s safe to say Celeste is far more dangerous than I ever gave her credit for. She’s calculated and unpredictable. Always planning her next move and never losing her head even if she’s in the throes of passion. From what I can tell, that’s how she tackles every situation.
Because even when I’m besting her, she’s got that no-big-deal, well-played poker face.
Game on, Ace.
