She jerks our lips apart, pulling back enough to sear me with her eyes, then she grabs my face. “I can’t believe you’re pissed at a podcast piece,” she hisses.
“I can’t believe you have it out for me,” I hiss right back.
“But what I really can’t believe”—she runs her hand down the front of my shirt, yanking it from my jeans—“is that you think this is going to change the score between us.”
I grin, but I’m still fuming. “Sweetheart, I know a good fuck isn’t going to change how you feel for me. But I don’t care.”
Her brow arches. “How do you know it’s going to be good?”
I let go of her, grab the hem of her shirt, then sweep it off, eating up the view. Gorgeous tits in a basic, white cotton bra. It’s such an I don’t give a shit look and it suits this woman.
“It’s not going to be a good fuck. It’s going to be the best ever,” I tell her.
“It better be. I cut my workout short for this,” she taunts.
“Promise my cock is a better use of your time than a StairMaster,” I say.
Her fingers play with the hair on my chest, then along my abs as she makes her way toward my jeans. But I don’t have the patience for foreplay. I barely have the patience to get the rest of our clothes off.
I rip open the button on her jeans, slide my hand ruthlessly between her legs, and then let loose the most satisfied groan of my life when I discover she’s soaked.
“Like I said—you want me,” I say.
She rolls her eyes, half mocking and half lost in pleasure as I stroke her wetness. “Never denied it,” she murmurs.
As I caress her sweet, hot pussy, I press my lips to her ear. “Turn around and pull your jeans down. I’m going to make you want to cut every damn workout short now.”
Seconds later, her jeans are in disarray, one leg on, one leg off. Mine are unzipped, and she thrusts a condom at me that she grabbed from her purse.
“You came prepared.”
“Just shut up and cover your dick,” she says as she gets in position.
“What the lady wants,” I say, rolling the condom down my length. Then I grab her hips and angle her ass up.
She grabs the edge of the piano, and I rub the head of my dick against all that delicious slickness and groan in mind-bending pleasure at the contact with this woman.
Her carnal moan echoes through the warehouse. I grip her hip, my fingers digging into her flesh. “You want it hard? You want it rough?”
“Yes. Just stop talking and get in me,” she says, gritting out the words.
Well, that’s clear.
I sink inside, filling her. When I’m all the way in, I go still as lust rips through me in a pounding wave. Her tight heat grips my cock, lighting me up from head to fucking toe.
Then, I give her what she came for.
There is nothing slow or tender in the way we screw. We are two thoroughbreds running the Kentucky Derby, hell-bent on the finish line. It’s hard, and it’s rough, and it’s everything I need right now.
She answers each punishing thrust with a dirty moan.
I squeeze her ass hard as I pump.
Her reply? A loud, guttural cry.
I go deeper. Her head falls forward, resting on her arms. She lifts her ass, asking me to keep up the relentless pace. I read her every cue, and I ride her gorgeous body like I’ve wanted to every time I’ve seen her.
She gives herself over to me completely in this dirty, desperate moment. Turning her head, she watches me as if enrapt.
Her lips are parted.
Her guard is down.
Wild lust flashes across those irises.
Then she whispers terribly gorgeous words. No more anger. No more hate in her voice. “Please . . . I want to come so badly.”
“And you fucking will.” I slide my hand between her legs, rub my fingers across the delicious rise of her clit.
She shudders, a wave that moves through her whole body as I rub.
Her noises rise impossibly higher as we chase the edge of bliss together. She grips the side of the piano like she’s holding on for dear life, knuckles white, body tense as I stroke and I fuck and I take her to the brink.
She cries out, a delirious burst of moans that don’t end, that keep going as she trembles and shakes and her orgasm seems to take over her world.
My release barrels down hard and fast, blotting out everything in the city but us.
When I come back to earth, we’re still panting and gasping, half-undressed, all spent. As I ease out of her, she turns around, her features soft, and cups my face. “I needed that. So much,” she says with a grateful sigh.
“Tell me why,” I demand.
She raises a finger. “Give a girl a second, you determined motherfucker.”
I smirk. “I’ll be a gentleman, then.”
“Good. The whole ‘gentlemanly motherfucker’ look suits you.”
We head for the restrooms, and when I exit a minute later, I hear the trill of “Like a Virgin” from atop the piano. Heart in my throat, I dive for the phone to answer the Mayday alert.
22
I Told You So
As soon as I pick up the phone, I hit the app and call my grandmother.
She answers quickly with a cheerful, “Hello, my little munchkin.”
Talk about a blast from the past. “You haven’t called me that since I was five. You must really be in a pickle.” I check the location on the Mayday app. Coco is only a few blocks away. “Are you at The Supper Lounge on a Tuesday night?”
“Yes. I told you I’d be home later, munchkin. But the cat is fine, right?”
Right. The cat claw plan. I slide into fake-emergency mode as I stuff my wallet into my jeans pocket. “Priscilla broke a nail. She’s at the ER. She needs you.”
“No!” Coco shrieks so loud I jerk the phone away.
Sneakers slap against the concrete floor as Bellamy comes from the bathroom, tugging her ponytail higher looking at me quizzically.
“That sounds terrible,” Coco continues. “Well, I’m so glad the cat’s fine, but I feel awful that my aunt needs me tonight. In Boston, you say?”
That’s not at all what I said, but I follow Grandma’s lead. “Yes. Aunt Betty Boop’s cat needs you too. That’s the one who broke his fingernail. Toenail? Paw-nail?”
Bellamy arches a brow as she listens to me. Meanwhile, Coco is improving on the other end of the call.
“We need to charter a helicopter tonight. Yes, pick me up so we can make it to the air pad on time,” Coco replies. “To Boston we go.”
My grandmother and I are having parallel conversations, apparently. “I’ll tell Harvey to fire up the chopper. Also, I’m pretty sure with cats it’s just a claw or toenail. Not a paw-nail.”
“I so hope Aunt Betty will be okay,” Coco says.
“And Aunt Betty’s cat,” I add, but Coco has already hung up.
Bellamy cocks her head. “Let me get this straight. Your friend, sister, or buddy”—she sketches air quotes around all three—“needs your help with her aunt and her cat?”
“It’s my grandmother. Her cat, Priscilla, is fine, though.”
“That’s a new excuse for dashing off after sex. Impressively creative,” Bellamy says sharply, grabbing her purse. “But fair is fair. Women learn young how to use cats or aunts to slip away from uncomfortable dates. I simply had no idea guys used the same excuses. Although adding a helicopter was hardly necessary,” she says. “I got the hint.”