He wove around the dancers, never making eye contact with her. But he was undeniably headed for her. Twenty feet away. Fifteen.
She moved deeper into the crowd of writhing, sweaty bodies, shoulder to shoulder, bouncing in sync. Hands and hips, heat and breaths, men and women—strangers rubbed up against her and slid away, only to be replaced by another and another.
A friendly pair of arms came around her from behind, hugging her waist. A solid chest pressed against her back, bringing with it the scent of leather from the jacket he wore. Or maybe it was his skin? He was all around her, the flex of lean masculine muscle grinding intimately, brazenly, with her body.
Ten feet away, her pursuer paused, looking everywhere but at her. Then he veered off to the left, fading into the throng.
She relaxed against the stranger’s tall frame behind her, letting him guide her into a sensual dance. If she stayed with this guy long enough, maybe her pursuer would go after Mike.
Christ, the guy knew how to move his body. The rock of his pelvis controlled the pace of hers, and his hands wandered with bold, confident strokes down her hips, molding around the fronts of her thighs, and slipping aggressive fingers beneath the short hem of her dress.
Whoa! Down boy.
Rough breaths pushed past her lips, and her insides melted into lava. So erotic, his touch. So dominating. Possessive.
Dangerous.
She gripped his forearms, pushing them away, but they were too strong. Unmoving.
Familiar.
With a gasp, she tried to turn toward him.
He stopped her in the cage of his arms, tugging her in close and dragging his hard, whiskered jaw along her neck. “You’re a terrible dancer.”
That voice, the gravelly rumble, the dark, silken cadence.
Cole Hartman.
Her entire body went rigid, and her lungs went up in smoke.
“Don’t go stiff on me. Relax your hips.” His palms ran down the outsides of her thighs, charging her blood with seductive energy. “Your stalker is watching.”
Evidently, she had more than one stalker, and this one wanted far more than a quick paycheck.
His mission was personal.
As months of paranoia hardened into reality, Lydia’s heartbeat exploded, ramming against her chest.
She’d wronged Cole unforgivably. Of course, he would come after her. She should’ve trusted her instinct.
He wanted revenge, but not here. He wouldn’t kill her in public. Too messy. Too many witnesses.
Until she figured out his plan, all she could do was play along.
Wiping the shock and fear off her face, she leaned back against his chest and angled her mouth toward his bent head. “How did you find me?”
“I never lost you.” He twisted her around, dragging her pussy right up against his muscled thigh.
Stunned by his words, his proximity, and his unrecognizable appearance, she could only stare. “You never had me.”
“Oh, I’ve had you.” With his leg between hers and his hands on her waist, he drove their hips together, flexing and thrusting in the delicious rolling movements of sex. “I’ve had every hole in this body.”
She didn’t need the reminder. Most nights, she sneaked away from Mike and pleasured herself in the bathroom to the memory. Cole had been an unforgettable experience, no matter how tainted the circumstances. She’d forced herself on him, and he’d fucked her right back. Tit for tat.
He kept her moving with the grind of his body, maintaining the ruse of a flirtatious stranger. God help her, he looked like one.
A tattered Misfits t-shirt peeked out from beneath a black motorcycle jacket. Black boots. Dark jeans. Clean, spiked hair. No beard. Just a shadow of stubble. And dimples.
Treacherous dimples. Deep, sexy, ensnaring little dips of deception. They made him look boyish, harmless, and so goddamn gorgeous her hands shook with the effort not to touch his sculpted face.
“What have you done to yourself?” She gave into the compulsion and set her fingers on his scratchy cheek, trying to reconcile her memory of him with the image before her.
He leaned forward, bending her and putting a sexy roll into movement before yanking her back up. “You prefer the beard?”
“Can’t decide.”
The beard shouted male dominance, maturity, and sexual virility. The five o’clock shadow attempted to affect the same rugged masculinity with deliberate untidiness while not actually being unkempt.
He probably smelled different. Cleaner. Less musky. A disheartening thought. She desperately missed his manly scent. But without all the hair, his dimples dramatically popped.
She needed to stop staring at them.
The song changed, and she forced her gaze around the nightclub, searching for the other stalker.
“He’s on his way out.” Cole pulled her in close and pivoted, putting the front entrance in her line of sight.
Sure enough, the man with the crooked nose headed to the door and slipped outside.
Had Cole been watching Vincent’s man watch her? Had he not planned on revealing himself to her? He seemed only to pop in because Vincent’s goon was approaching.
How long would Mike wait before he gave up and came back inside? Another ten minutes? Long enough for Cole to get what he came for?
“Are you going to kill me?” She dragged her gaze to his, burning in the heat of his twisting, writhing, gloriously ripped body.
“Can’t decide.”
“I keep thinking I should’ve let the stonecutter take your dick.”
“I haven’t stopped thinking about you, either. Your perfect rack. Your sloppy cunt.” He palmed her backside, grinding her body against his thigh. “Your tight little asshole clenching around me. Fucking heaven.”
With each word and rocking gyration of his hips, he slid closer, hotter, his hands traveling everywhere, feeling her up and down. If there was a lie in that smoldering look, she didn’t sense it. The man was a baffling contradiction.
“You said you weren’t interested.” She pushed at his chest. “You fucked my ass to manipulate me.”
“Is that what I did?” He pulled her back in. “Or what I said?”
“You said it. Sure felt like you did it.”
Was he fucking with her? Then? Or now?
He touched the blonde tips of her wig, his knuckles brushing against her jaw. “I prefer the red.”
Interesting. The wig matched the color of Danni’s hair.
“It was fake.” She smacked his hand away.
“Was any of it real?”
Her pulse thrummed. “You tell me.”
Their gazes locked, and electricity crackled across her skin, resurrecting her fear, for with it rose the flames of reckless longing. Their hips undulated together, and her insides buzzed, sparking with blistering desire.
She never knew sexual tension like this existed. It seethed beneath his touch, growled through his heavy breaths, and dripped down her legs because dammit, she wasn’t wearing panties.
Their grinding became so obscenely sexual she knew they were making a scene. But she couldn’t shove him away, and he showed no signs of stopping.
Fused at the hips, they connected in rhythm and motion, pushing and pulling, slowing down and speeding up, dancing as one. Not fighting. Not trying to kill each other. They molded together and clung, sinking into the addictive burn. The hunger. The danger.