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Oh damn. A compliment, from him, directed right to her softest, most vulnerable underbelly. “Yo
u think?”
“Yeah. Your voice is very”—he faced front, rubbed the back of his neck, and sent a sheepish smile to the night—“evocative. The two-tone hair? The NASCAR flag girl wardrobe? They’re just distractions, Roxy. You don’t need them. You’re never going to be run-of-the-mill. Not with your talent.”
West wouldn’t stroke her ego. He had nothing to gain from praising her, which might explain why his words put hazardous cracks in the defenses she’d scrambled to build where he was concerned. Singers, musicians, even songwriters, were a dime a dozen. Did she have anything unique to offer? Was she special? Did she possess the kind of innate gifts—not to mention the smarts—required to live up to the hopes and dreams her parents had held for her? The last few years had sown some serious doubts. Particularly in the smarts department.
Asking the questions out loud handed him way too much power, like paving him a shortcut to her weakest points. She defaulted to what would either push him away or lure him in under terms she could handle. At least, she hoped she could.
She undid her seat belt and leaned close enough to rest her breasts against his arm. He tensed, and the leashed strength in the reaction sent her pulse racing. “My voice isn’t the only talent I could bring to your bedroom.”
His breath stalled and then shuddered out slowly, as if the air around them weighed more than normal. She pushed herself up on one knee and ran her tongue along his locked jaw. A night at Rawley’s left traces on a man—hints of smoke and cocktail waitress layered over the straightforward scent of bar soap she found stupidly enthralling. The combination stirred her senses and sent a flood of salt to the back of her mouth.
The groan that vibrated through his chest was all the encouragement she needed. Lightheaded and ravenous for more, she climbed over the console, straddled his hips, and dropped onto his lap. A thick ridge prodded the V of her thighs, melting her from the inside. This time the groan came from her. “Or here,” she panted, going full steam ahead on a fuel of lust and bravado. “I could show you all my talents right here.”
His hands were everywhere, spanning her waist, squeezing her thighs, and then gripping her hips to drag her closer, grinding her softest parts against parts of him so astoundingly hard the contact alone wrung a moan of appreciation from her. The urgency in his response sent heat flooding between her legs, and she wondered if he felt her go damp through the layers of their clothes.
Big hands sank into the gap at the back of her shorts and palmed her bare skin.
“Christ, I knew it. Traipsing around tonight in shorts one tug away from dropping around your ankles and not a stitch on underneath. Every time you moved, all I could concentrate on was this. Squeezing it. Eating it. Owning it.”
Hell, yes. She reached past his head and dug her fingernails into the seatback. Arching her spine, she pushed her hips into his hands and offered him what he wanted. “It’s yours. Yours for the night.” Sure, the words sounded like surrender, but by her rules, she’d won. He might not approve of her, but he wanted her, and he didn’t have the self-discipline to fight it anymore. A flare of triumph shimmered behind her closed eyelids, almost as glorious as the orgasm already building deep inside her.
His hands slid lower. The scrape of his tough palms against her smooth skin made her shiver. Then he gripped again, and the sensation of those hands lifting and spreading her cheeks left her breathless—unprotected, trembling, and feeling the tension all the way to her clit. Did he understand how desperately empty she was? She suddenly did.
Long fingers took a leisurely tour of the path he’d prepared for himself. Another moan snuck past her lips as he continued his unhurried expedition.
“Tell me what you want.”
She wanted to revel in the sweet joy of pushing the indomitable Officer Donovan beyond the limits of his rigid control. She wanted… “Anything.” But even as she panted the word, she imagined those maddeningly slow fingers trailing lower, delving into wet flesh flush with anticipation. She raised her hips to try and urge him along. “Touch me.”
“Here?”
Fingertips skimmed along the very back of her pussy.
Her entire body jerked in reaction. “Yes.” The word sounded loud in her mind—a blaring horn in an empty tunnel—but somehow came out little more than a whimper. Nonetheless, he heard her. Fingers closed in from behind. Her eyelids fluttered shut, and she prepared for her well-earned victory, but at the last moment he bypassed the target and pressed against the soft flesh surrounding her aching center. Heavy fingers bracketed her, holding her open and waiting.
“Look at me.”
“West.” Frustration strained her throat. Nothing good could come of staring deep into his eyes while he stroked her through her first tandem orgasm in eons. Things had somehow gotten turned around. She was supposed to be the one in control here. Her hips instinctively rocked, but she couldn’t make contact with anything useful. The intensity of the exquisite torture hit her all at once. Like an out-of-body experience, she saw herself straddling West’s lap in the cramped confines of the pickup, knees wide, shorts low and her hips as high as the steering wheel allowed. How long would he keep her hanging in this agonizing limbo, silently screaming to be filled?
Need burned like a fever, obliterating pride and agendas. She’d do anything to earn the relief he could bring to her so easily just by pushing one of those long fingers inside and slowly stirring until—
A sharp spasm of need lanced her. Every muscle in the vicinity of his touch clenched so hard she actually bucked.
“Easy, Roxy. We’re still on preliminaries.”
Preliminaries? Oh God, she was, quite possibly, going to come right here on his lap, with critical parts of her still painfully vacant. She opened her eyes, fully prepared to plead for more, and fell into his dark stare. He held her gaze for a heartbeat, and then his attention dropped to her mouth and fixed there. Locked on a new objective. He moved in to claim it, and out of a long-held habit of self-preservation, she feinted away.
“Kiss me,” he murmured.
Chapter Eight
Need like a freight train thundered down tracks that led God-only-knew where. Beyond caution, past reason, and straight to hell, most likely, and West didn’t give a single shit. Not with his hands finally inside the dick-bait cutoffs Roxy had sashayed around in all night. She’d earned this, and he wasn’t relinquishing her ass until he was good and done with it.
No time soon.
First, he intended to wring an orgasm from her with his fingers. She was more than halfway there already. Then he’d drag the shorts down, prop the heels of her bad-girl biker boots against the ceiling of the truck, and use his mouth on her until she sang hallelujah. When she hit just the right note, he’d suck the next orgasm out of her. He didn’t care if the whole process left boot tracks all over his headliner. After that, he’d flip her around, haul her cock-teasing ass into the air, and fuck her so thoroughly that when he finally let her crawl out from under him, she’d swear he was still buried inside her.
