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“Dangling the fancy hotel card in front of my face isn’t your style. Or is it?” I ask.
He growls. He knows damn well a fancy hotel, house, or car doesn’t mean shit to me.
I like money as much as the next girl, but it’s not as important as love, family, health and happiness. Cash only helps you stay alive; those other things make life worth living.
“Still daydreaming, babe?” he asks, raking an angry hand through his hair.
I focus my attention back on the man I used to know standing inches away from me. “Get it into your thick skull. You,” I spit out, poking a finger in his chest, “can’t,” I continue, tapping again, “tell me what to do.” Licking my bottom lip, I taste his breath on my tongue and my stomach drops.
“I can and I will because I can’t have my wife”—he grits out the wife part—“dancing at Girls to fucking ‘Cherry Pie!’ This is not the damn eighties!” He slams his hands against the brick wall next to my head, still towering over me. “When I am the one, the only one, who gets to taste your sweet cherry.” He snarls, slapping his fist against his chest like some damn caveman.
“I’ve had my own share on the road. So let’s not pretend,” I tell him. My voice shakes, matching the beating of my heart.
He pinches his eyes closed to little slits, the anger radiating off him.
“We haven’t spoken in years. I’ve been dating,” I state, although it is a flat-out lie, and judging by the look on his face, he suspects it. My brothers must have spilled the beans. The only action I have seen in the last few years has been hearing my cousins and brother getting it on in the tour bus. Yeah, good times. Not. I’m not going to tell him I still fantasize about him when I turn my battery-operated device on.
“And you’ve been busy punching in your slut card, making up for lost time, haven’t you?” I continue. “Nice song lyrics, by the way,” I say sarcastically, biting on my lip. Shit, why give myself away?
Rone’s smile turns wolfish. “So you have been keeping tabs on me since Los Angeles?”
His slow drawl makes me weak in the knees.
“Fuck, the way you were dancing made me want to—” he growls, his voice deepening with unmistakable desire. My breath hitches and I get wetter with every breath I take. He knowns he is getting to me, the fucking bastard.
“No,” I mumble, averting my eyes from his lips. I can’t help myself when they travel to the bulge straining against the zipper of his tight black jeans. Damn, he looks good.
He grunts. “You’re full of shit, babe.” Voice filled with lust, he grabs the back of my neck, pushing his strong body against mine. His hard-on presses against my stomach, and my mouth waters.
Rone’s pupils dilate, and his face screws up.
“You let your dates fuck you?”
I don’t know what to tell him; my heart’s a mess.
“Did you?” he bellows.
“No.” My voice is small, because I’m still weak when it comes to him.
“You let them kiss you here?” he asks, leaning forward. Navarone’s breath ghosts over my neck, and I sigh, my body betrays me. His lips touch the place below my ear, and goose bumps break out all over my flesh.
I shake my head, trying to push him away or pull him toward me. I can’t remember my name in that moment. He sounds like he’s holding in a growl as he slowly leans down, opens the jacket and exposes my bare stomach.
His hands move over the curves of my body, his fingers lingering on my tattoos, touching me like he did when we were younger and he explored every part of me. He kisses between my breasts, and I arch up. His beard tingles my skin, and my toes curl in the six-inch heels I wear; he makes me weak in the knees. Memories come rushing back like the waves crashing on the beach where we spent most of that summer.
He traces the underline of my bikini, his mouth hot against my cold skin. The bastard still likes my small breasts, judging by his intake of breath.
Lust reflects in his eyes when his fingers trail over the cup of the tiny black bikini top I’m wearing. His fingers move over the metal bar in my nipple, and he sucks in a lungful of air. My hands travel into his hair and I sigh, feeling the velvety strands between my fingers.
Navarone closes his eyes like he is remembering all the times I used to brush his hair out of his face before kissing him. He groans. “He kissed you here?”
I lick my lips, shaking my head to answer his question, pushing myself into his warm hand. I want to feel him. He takes my nipple between his fingers and kisses the tip before holding the metal bar between his teeth through the fabric and pulling a little.
My clit twitches. “Oh, fuck,” I moan. My hands grab his hair tighter, holding him to my chest. How I’ve missed his touch. Missed this feeling. I haven’t been with a man since I walked out on our life. I remember the road trip to the Grand Canyon we took after we got married, and we made love all through the night, the moonlight shining into the room, like some freaking Nicholas Sparks novel.
His lips travel south, and I whimper while brushing my hair out of my face, trying to compose myself. He is on his knees in front of me. Panting, I fall back against the brick wall, hoping no one recognizes us standing in the back alley behind the club.
“He touched you here?” he asks, looking up through those thick black lashes of his, kissing the inside of my thigh next to my black bikini. Shuddering, I bite on my lip, holding in my moan, feeling myself getting wetter with him on his knees before me. Why does my body betray me like this? My head falls back against the cool brick wall as I try to get my heartbeat under control.
