Yes, I said throw, as that is precisely what he does.
Luckily for me and my short temper, his truck doesn’t have the means to keep me contained like his patrol car does. Even our exchange being witnessed by over a half dozen spectators doesn’t weaken my determination in the slightest. I charge for the scrub like I’m outrunning an axe-murderer, my strides as spirited as my resolve.
Ryan is nipping at my heels two seconds later. He curls his arm around my waist, hoisting me so far off the ground my shoes run on air.
“You can’t outrun me, Savannah. I chase criminals for a living. It’s my job,” he murmurs into my ear as he walks us back to his truck, his steps not as hurried this time around.
My frantic wails come to a shrieking halt. I can’t fight him—I’m too busy calming the inane pulse his gritty voice caused to my sex. If the force doesn’t work out for Ryan, he should consider book narration. He’d have the readers’ panties damp just from reading the copyright notice.
While pinning me to his truck with his body, he throws open the door I slammed shut during my evasion. I’m not going to lie, not all my breathlessness is from running away. Some—if not all of it—is from having every inch of his rock-hard body pressed against mine. Ryan has always had a nice build, but he’s added a few extra pounds of muscle the past ten years, making his body not just nice, but mouthwateringly impressive.
My spine snaps straight as disturbing notion after disturbing notion filters through my head. He was just sexting another woman, yet I’m grinding against his crotch like his cock is a metal detector and I have a treasure chest lodged up my ass.
What the hell is wrong with me?
“Let me go, Ryan!” I demand with anger dangling on my vocal cords.
“No,” he replies without pause for thought.
He shoves me into the passenger seat of his truck before sprinting for the driver side door. With the encouraging cheer of my colleagues, I swing open the door he just slammed shut and commence sliding out.
I don’t even get a foot on the ground before Ryan’s impressive body fills the doorframe.
Snarling, I clamber for the driver’s side door.
Ryan’s torso warms my back two seconds later.
And thus begins a vicious game of cat and mouse.
Our audience grows in size with every back and forth exchange. If there wasn’t a weird, sick, demented part of me relishing Ryan’s resolve, I’d be peeved at the attention. But with playfulness warming both my heart and my core, my anger is kept at bay.
Ryan’s face displays his annoyance, but that isn’t the only insight his panty-wetting features reveal. He is also thankful for the challenge. Ryan isn’t an overly competitive man, but he is still a man nonetheless. He loves the chase just as much as any red-blooded man. To some men, this type of foray is as good as foreplay.
To some women as well.
I swear my panties have never been so drenched. Just last week I was arguing with Ryan that my morals hadn’t up and left town. Now, I’m not so sure. Am I so desperate for attention, I’m willing to pretend I didn’t see what I saw? Wasn’t turning a blind eye what got me in this position to begin with?
I’m not doing that again. If I can’t be myself around a man I’ve known since I was four, who can I be honest with?
No one.
“Who was she?” I ask, stopping Ryan’s trek from the passenger door to the driver’s door midstride.
He peers at me sitting in the middle of his bench seat with confusion slashed across his handsome features. “Who?”
I say a private prayer to keep jealousy out of my voice before replying, “The woman you were smiling about earlier. Who is she?” For once, my prayers are answered.
Ryan remains still, either shocked into silence or striving to weasel his way out of an awkward situation.
I realize it is neither when he locks his eyes with mine and says, “You, Savannah.”
Confusion engulfs me. Ryan is a bad liar in general, but when he is looking directly into my eyes, he has no chance in hell of hiding his deceit, so why would he bother?Unless he’s telling the truth.
“I didn’t send you a message.” Confusion echoes in my tone.
Ryan smiles, then nods. “I know. But the message wasn’t from you. It was about you.”
Spotting my growing bewilderment, he adds on, “Izzy wanted to know if I needed backup tonight. I told her I had everything covered.” He licks his dry lips, drawing a moan from a female spectator watching our exchange from the sidelines. “I have everything covered, don’t I?”
