“What makes you happy?”
“All of the above.”
“Runny eggs and coffee make you happy?” She prompts, calling bullshit.
If only my life were that fucking simple. “What if you woke up tomorrow and there was no coffee?”
She frowns. “That would be tragic.”
“Next time you drink it, pretend it’s the last time you can have it.”
“Great, there are two of you. Is that some philosophy? Okay, Plato.”
My lips lift. “You can discover more about a person in an hour of play than you can in a year of conversation.”
Sensing the familiar heaviness on my profile, I glance over. “I was raised to appreciate the small shit.” The understanding in her expression only has my need ramping up to get closer.
Because I do want her, but the reality I exist in makes that an impossibility. The current continues to thrum between us as knowledge batters me that once we reach the end of this drive, both the bliss and temporary peace I’ve found with her—in her—will most likely be snatched from my grasp. Making a rash decision, I turn onto a dead end that leads to a small clearing. Killing the engine, I’m struck stupid by the sight of her staring wistfully through the windshield up at the half-moon. Her lit profile has my fingers itching to run through her flame. Leaning over with a, “come here,” I grip her hips and pull her to straddle my lap. Sinking in my seat, she surrounds me while I immerse myself in the temporary high, flexing my fingers through her silky hair. Lips painted red, and eyes shrouded in black, she stares back at me, temptation personified.
When she dips, it takes some effort to deny her kiss, but I do, knowing I don’t have the luxury of time to lose myself. As she pulls away, her beautiful features twist in confusion. I’m just as confounded as to why I spent two days convincing myself that allowing our pull to overtake me to the extent it did at the lake was a one-time high.
“He likes the red,” I offer in shit excuse, which serves as a reminder to us both. Guilt mars her face at that reminder, and it’s then I know she’s fighting her own battle—a war with instilled morality. Her next question proves as much. “How long have you known each other?”
The uneasiness emanating from her has me running my palms up her back as my traitorous cock starts to harden, giving absolutely no fucks about my stance where she’s concerned. “Most of our lives.”
“That close?” She asks, rocking atop the bulge growing beneath her, gauging the heated warning in my eyes.
“We’re all close.”
“Apparently so.”
The rumble of approaching engines cut through the night noise, serving as a reminder that I’m on borrowed time. Cecelia glances over my shoulder as they fly by. “They’re leaving us.”
“We left them,” I correct, my palms hastening up and down the material covering her back.
“And we left them because?”
“Because,” I lift to kiss her—because I fucking want to—and stop myself just before impact. Eyes closed in wait, her fast, anticipatory exhales hit my lips as all replies die on my tongue.
Because in minutes, you’ll be fully aware of the level of deception we’re capable of, and your moral dilemma about being shared will be a non-issue.
Because once you do know, you’ll distance yourself far beyond either of our reach.
Slinking back into my seat, she opens her eyes to find me smirking in satisfaction. She wants me just as much.
“You’re an asshole.”
And you’re the most beautiful punishment I’ve ever been dealt.
“That’s not news. Anything else you need to know?”
“I don’t know anything.”
“Sure you do,” I thrust up, so she can feel just how fucking much I’m denying myself.
Knowing I need to start armoring up for what’s ahead, I opt to continue playing with the electricity at my fingertips because I’m just that selfish motherfucker.
Stealing the rest of her breath, l grind against the heat I can feel seeping from her core and am rewarded by fast pants as she sifts through our conversation.
“You described most red-blooded men. Cold beer, ah,” she moans as I continually thrust up, and she starts to give back as good as she’s getting, swiveling her hips.
“Fast cars?”
Thrust.
“Black coffee?”
Thrust.
“Runny eggs and . . .”
“And?” I prompt, lifting her so she’s suspended on my outraged dick.
“Me,” she whispers hoarsely before flashing a smile that serves as a direct hit.
“Then you know enough.”
Giving myself a minute more, I lift her shirt and groan inwardly when I’m met with the sight of perfect tits and peaked nipples. Every bit of remaining self-control I have threatens to abandon me when I dip and pull her hardened flesh into my mouth. As I greedily feed, she explodes into motion, grinding onto me as I momentarily lose myself. I soak in what I can of her scent, the feel of her, knowing it might be my last taste.
It’s when she moans my name that I mentally start to force myself away, biting down on her exposed flesh before soothing away any sting with the tip of my tongue.
“That was cruel,” she scolds.
My dick agrees, but at least my conscience won’t eat at me like it tried to after the lake. If I ever lay another hand on Cecelia Horner, at least she’ll have a better idea of whom she’s getting into bed with—even if key parts of the truth remain purposefully tucked away. Sean was right in the sense that she deserves to know who’s fucking her. After tonight, she’ll be aware of the true nature of the devils she’s dancing with, and after that, it will be her decision to stay on the floor.
“We’ll have to pick this up—later,” I say, knowing it might be the last lie I ever tell her—that after Sean pulls back the curtain, she’ll most likely run. Glancing over as I turn the key, something inside me stirs at the possibility that she won’t.
Vision muddled by black rage, someone grips my hand, and I whip around, fist drawn to see Cecelia’s mortified gaze. Shaking her concern off, my wrist throbs as I offer her another lie. “I’m good.”
I’m anything but fucking good.
Fury and adrenaline continue to war for dominance as Cecelia takes a cautious step away from me. Her expression is telling as Sean snakes a protective arm around her, pulling her into him to shield her—from me. “Let him cool off, baby.”
Not fucking likely.
As predicted, the last hour has been a fucking disaster. Feeling Cecelia’s terrified gaze trail me, I break through the cover of the trees, fighting the urge to retrieve my Glock and end Andre and Matteo—no matter who’s left in the audience. I’m bending my wrist and flexing my trigger finger when Tyler appears, eyeing my injury. “Broken?”
I jerk my chin in reply. “Andre no showed.”
“I know,” he exhales, glancing toward the roaring bonfire. “I’ve been tracking them both all night.”
Andre—the head of the Miami chapter—missed the window for our one-on-one. Which, in our club, is a blatant sign of disrespect. Meetups are more a guise for the deals that take place between the trees at the party. A time meant to set up the when and where to trade stolen goods of each Chapter’s most recent takes—along with introducing any recruits. It’s one of the few secrets we share. “They’re not even hiding it anymore. Something’s up.”