And I didn’t want to leave Copper Valley with him thinking that I was nothing more than a pain in the ass heiress whose sole goal is to complicate his life. Because that’s not me, and everything I’ve done for the Fireballs, I’ve done for the Fireballs.
For my family.
For the challenge.
For finding a new purpose in life.
“I’m only here because I need to tell you that I’m damn good at my job, no matter what job I take on, and I like winning. I like a challenge, and I like doing my job well. So while I know you have concerns about my involvement with the Fireballs, and while I know you’re hoping I’ll give up and just sell them to you, I’m staying, and I’m going to rescue my family’s team.”
He lifts a brow, and I want to bite it, and then lick it, and hope that he does the same for my neck.
Yep.
I need to leave.
“Please understand that I’m not doing anything out of spite for the way we met, or just to make your life difficult, when I understand as well as I can that you already have plenty of your own struggles for a variety of reasons. We all do. It’s part of the human condition. But I won’t sit back and not be involved, and I do appreciate your dedication to the Fireballs. I just wanted you to know that.”
“You came here tonight, at midnight, to say thank you?”
“And to let you know I’m going to continue to make your life hell, but it’s not personal.”
He chuckles. “In other words, you’re running away.”
“Excuse me?”
“You don’t have to be back in New York next week. You’re running away, because you don’t want to get close enough to let me in.”
“You don’t want to be in.”
He leans into my body, his eyes on level with mine, his nose mere moments from grazing my cheek. “You don’t know what I want.”
It’s not malicious or threatening.
It’s temptation on a rough whisper. It’s an invitation. It’s—
This.
Our lips brushing. Our breaths mingling. My hand involuntarily lifting to cup the back of his neck while his palm settles on my waist and his fingers press into the top of my ass.
My eyes slide closed, and I surrender.
I surrender to the curiosity. To the intrigue. To the raw attraction to this man who’s part baseball fan, part determined businessman, part musician, part single dad.
So many sides to admire.
Starting with the firm lips coaxing mine apart. Then there’s his arm sliding around me and drawing me against his body. He doesn’t grind his erection against me, but I’m well aware of exactly what that thick bulge against my thigh is, and I won’t deny that I want more of it.
“You drive me insane twenty hours a day and I still want you,” he murmurs against my mouth.
“Attraction is eighty percent insanity.”
He smiles, eyes crinkling, and I’m gone.
Just gone.
I dive into the kiss head-first without checking to see how deep the water is or if there are piranhas lurking in the cloudy parts.
Not smart, Lila, that omnipresent safety buzzer in my brain whispers.
Shut the hell up and let her kiss a man, the part of me that wants to live replies.
That part rarely wins, but she’s ahead by three laps on this track tonight, and he’s stroking my ass with his hands and touching my tongue with his.
Fireworks are exploding.
The fireworks.
All over my skin. In my breasts. Deep in my core.
I fling one leg around his hips. He grips my other leg, and ohhh, yes, I’m wrapped around his hips with that thick, solid ridge nestled between my thighs, and we’re both wearing too many clothes, but we are so going to work out this tension between us, and I can go back to life as normal tomorrow, and ohmygod, he found my nipples again.
He has me backed against the wall with a light switch or something bulky in my back while I thrust against his hips, and he’s teasing my breasts and devouring my mouth and I am never, ever going to make out with another man in my life without thinking of how expertly Tripp Wilson can locate and squeeze my nipples.
Fireworks?
Nuh-uh.
Earthquakes.
There are earthquakes shaking my core. Safe, smart Lila has fled the state, and aroused, gimme my cookies Lila is driving this train. I’m gripping him by the ears, slanting my mouth to his, then trailing kisses across his stubbled jaw to nip at his ears while he does some weird magic with his tongue right at that spot where my neck and shoulders meet, his engorged cock hitting my clit through my jeans and making my eyes cross.
We really should’ve just finished this a month ago.
Without even trading names.
Who needs names?
What do names even mean?
I paw at his shirt. His hands are already under mine.
We’re doing this.
We’re finishing what we started in New York, and tomorrow’s going to be a new day of working together with a man that I’m going to bang at every opportunity, even though the smart, safe thing is to not get involved with a man who works for me every day of the week, but I cannot resist him.
He’s strength and stubbornness and rightness and grief and understanding and pure, raw sex.
“I want to touch you,” he rasps.
“Don’t stop now.”
“This is insane.”
“Inevita—oh my god, more.”
He’s managed to unclasp my bra and is stroking the underside of my breasts, and how did I never know I was so sensitive there?
My hips buck against him, and when he brushes his thumbs over the tips of my nipples again, I nearly come on the spot, straining my clit against his thick erection, too much clothing, too many barriers, too much—
“Good evening, Mr. Wilson. Is everything okay?”
I jerk back and bang my head against the wall at the loud voice coming from above us.
Tripp jerks back too, and I squeak and fling my arms around him as I realize I’m about to fall.
He grunts and staggers.
I remember I have legs, but gah, I don’t want to let go, but—
“Mr. Wilson?”
“Who is—oof—that?” I ask while we both crash into the opposite wall, and suddenly it occurs to me that I should let him go.
But the thought doesn’t come before we’re crumpling to the ground together, legs twined, my arm somehow smushed to his crotch.
He’s looking around wildly too, when his gaze lands on the wall behind me. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he mutters.
He’s panting. I’m panting. And while I’m still struggling to figure out where the voice is coming from, he looks at the ceiling. “I’m fine. We’re fine. Thank you.”
“Alright, Mr. Wilson,” the ceiling says. “Have a nice evening.”
He starts to nod to the ceiling, and then he cringes. “Apple dumplings!” he barks. “I mean ghost rider. I mean—dammit. Shit. Lila—fuck. I need—”
I don’t know what he needs, but I’m suddenly aware of a smoky scent in the air. “Are you having a bonfire here too?” I ask while my phone buzzes in my back pocket. I push off Tripp, remember where my arm is as he grunts and hunches over—lovely, I’ve just racked him in the balls—but I know who’s calling and I need to take this.