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She looks up, embarrassment pulling at her features in the evening air. “I’m sorry.”
“For running off? Yeah, you should be. I’m not gonna molest you. But I’m also not apologizing for kissing you. Why the fuck did you run, Princess? And should I go back and maim that guy?”
Sidney squeezes her eyes shut for a second, dropping her head to my chest. “I . . . it’s . . . I’m just humiliated.”
I stare at her. “You’re what?”
“I said—”
“Heard that, Sidney, really. Fucking heard you. You ran right after looking like the devil had just jumped up because you were humiliated? That I kissed you? That the groper dude tried to plant one on you?”
“I . . .”
Then Sidney is right, her front plastered to mine, arms circling around my shoulders, and she puts her lips to mine.
I’m fucking furious. I’m fucking in protection mode. I’m so damned confused and turned on I don’t know which way is up.
Except her mouth is soft and sweet and inviting, and the need for more sucks in the anger and morphs it.
This time, when I kiss her back, I do it properly. I lift her so she’s on the pick-up, hood warm where my hand holds her right at her ass. And she opens up to me. Fucking opens and not only takes me in but gives me one hell of a tour.
Her tongue is there, on mine, and it’s like sex, that kiss. Hard and right and needy. I lift my head, angle hers, and take her again as her legs come around my waist. She makes a soft sound of need and want that revs me into a raging hard-on in seconds flat.
I want to take all there is to take, to stamp her as mine. Leave my mark. I trail hot little kisses that nip and suck at the delicate skin of her throat, and she moans. Rocks that pussy against my hard-on like the sweet little tease she is.
Slipping my hand down and around, I whisper up that hot, damp flesh of her top inner thighs, touching lace and wetness and feeling the inferno that’s all her.
Fuck, it’s lace. She has on lace boy shorts, and the thought of practical impractical makes me almost shoot right then and there.
She’s rocking against my hand, pushing the back of that hand into my dick’s hard, sensitive jut in my jeans. Sliding my finger along the lace that covers her hot, wet slit, the dampness there on my finger, I bring it up to play with her clit, and she shudders, gasping, grasping at me as I take her mouth once more. I want to delve in.
I want to fuck her. Here. Now. Against my truck. On it.
But I stop. Everything. I lower her to her feet and step away.
“Nope, Princess, uh-uh. Not gonna fuckin’ fall for the old seduction thing instead of talking. Because you should use your mouth”—like on my cock—“for talking. You can talk to me.”
“About what?”
“Why you got weird?”
“I just had too much to drink and needed air.”
I don’t buy that utter bullshit for a second. Shaking my head, I point to the door she’s left open. “Get back in, and I’ll drive you home.”
At first, I don’t think she will, but what’s she gonna do out here alone?
So, I get into the driver’s side and wait. When she gets in, closing the door with a careful click, I drive her back to the lodge.
* * *
The anger dissipated, frustration? Way up there. Self-control? Barely fucking holding on.
I pull up outside the front of the lodge, leaving the motor running. I rub a hand down my face, then drop it back on the wheel.
“Sidney, I . . . I’ll see you soon.”
She nods but doesn’t look at me and gets out. And I wait until she’s inside.
