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“A reason not to haul you over to him!”
“Oh. Okay. Let me think…”
“Yeah, you think real hard while I frisk you for weapons.”
Thankfully, he lets go of my neck and takes a step back to look me up and down. With some distance between us, I can see his face better. He’s young, dark hair shaved close to his head. We’re the same height, a little over six feet, but he’s a little leaner, with dark tattoos running up both of his muscular arms, which are hanging out of a Devil Hounds leather cut. Now probably isn’t the best time to ask for a closer look at his ink. His jeans are tighter than most bikers wear them, so I bet it’s hard for him to straddle a bike without splitting them. I wonder if he rides a Harley.
“Arms out, turn around, and spread your feet apart.”
“Why?”
“I just told you – I need to check you for weapons.”
“Oh. Right. I don’t have any,” I lie, hoping he’ll let me go.
“That’s exactly what a liar with weapons would tell me.”
Crap. He got me there. He’s smarter than he looks. That’s not something anyone would ever say about me.
Since he looks ready to pounce if I try to run past him, I slowly lift my arms up and out to the side, knowing that shit is probably going to go down as soon as he spots the Ruger .380 tucked in the back waistband of my jeans. Once my back is to him, all I can do is stand with my feet shoulder-width apart and wait for the fallout.
“Don’t move an inch,” the guy says.
He’s bossy. I don’t really mind, though. I grew up with two older brothers and a younger one constantly telling me what to do. Since they’re all smarter than me, I didn’t argue with them often.
The front of his body presses tightly against the back of mine as his big hands come around and go up underneath my plain white tee. He pats around my hips before sliding his strong, calloused hands up my bare ribs, over my chest, back down the front of my flat stomach. That’s where I get all fucked-up for some reason.
The shit tickled – in ways it shouldn’t have.
Not the kind of tickle that makes you squirm and laugh as a kid, but the kind that makes your dick twitch. And then keep twitching, hoping for some action.
Shit. I wonder if he heard or felt my breath hitch.
At least he can’t see my now bulging fly. How embarrassing would that be, trying to explain away my erection when there’s not a woman in sight?
I’ve never had anything against gay men or women, but I sure as hell have never gotten hard from having a man feel me up.
But then again, I’ve never had another man feel me up before, have I?
The guy shoves his hand in my front jean pocket and feels around, making me hold my breath when the inside pocket brushes against the side of my dick. He goes to the other side and does the same without stealing my phone or mentioning my erection, thank god.
In fact, the guy’s hands leave me all too soon. I, unfortunately, am left craving more contact, as confusing as that shit is to wrap my head around.
I figure the worst is over, and I can start telling my boner to settle down when his palms pat the jean pockets covering my ass like he’s giving me a soft spanking. I have to bite my lip to keep from groaning as he removes my wallet, then rechecks by slipping his hand into both back pockets, giving my ass cheeks a little squeeze.
Or maybe that’s just my imagination.
What the hell is wrong with me?
It’s been a few weeks since a woman grabbed my ass or rubbed my stomach, so maybe I just missed the physical attention? I’m always horny, so maybe just any sort of physical contact will do right now in this dark, secluded area.
Those excuses seem flimsy even to me.
The Devil Hound slides his hands down the outside of my legs to my ankles, where he raises each pant leg to feel around my socks and shoes. Okay. Those ankle touches didn’t deflate my cock, but at least they didn’t make it any worse.
But when he slides those big mitts up the inside of my spread legs right to my…well, I wasn’t even close to prepared.
I can’t contain my grunt when he cups my fly, unintentionally grabbing my hard dick and part of my balls. Yeah, his hand is that big.
