—Sarafina Rose to North the Woodsman on their meeting, Ravaged Lands
“Explain to me again why my presence is required at this shindig?”
Jordan glances over at me, momentarily swinging his attention from the road. A smirk tugs at the corner of his criminally sexy mouth, lifting the hoop piercing the corner of his bottom lip. The order for him to turn his eyes back to the road hovers on my tongue. Not for road safety, although yes, there’s that. But also for my vagina’s sanity. That heffa has no shame when it comes to this male.
Thirsty bitch.
If it wasn’t for her, I wouldn’t know how he sounds when he powers inside a woman. Or that the mountain-fresh-and-dark-earth scent rises thicker from his skin when sweat coats it.
Or that he can fuck like he owns the patent and copyright.
For a moment, an image of a slightly older, harder, more battle-worn version of Jordan superimposes itself over his features. But thesame sharp, noble features. The same intelligent eyes. Identical mouth with its full, indecently sensual curves.
A shiver works its way down my spine, seizes my lower back, and then travels lower still to echo and throb in my sex. Attempting to not be conspicuous, I shift in the passenger seat of his Hummer. As if my agitation isn’t enough of a problem, that same alluring scent—minus the perspiration-dampened heaviness—fills the interior of the vehicle. I can’t escape it. When I return home tonight and slide between my sheets, I’ll probably smell him on my clothes, in my hair. Why that thought of physically wearing him deepens the ache between my thighs, I choose not to dwell on.
And as Bobby Brown once assured me, it’s my prerogative not to.
“Shindig?” He snickers. “I’m sure Linc would love that you’ve referred to a catered party with one of the most popular DJs in the country at his mansion as ashindig.” He shakes his head. “And your presence isn’t required, but didn’t you just break up with Antonio? I’m not about to have you sitting at home brooding over that shit.”
I look away from him, staring out the passenger window as the dark scenery of the wealthy Cherry Creek neighborhood passes by. This is light-years from the Park Hill area I call home. And I’m not just talking geography and tax bracket. Mentality, mindset, lifestyle, values ... this isn’t my world. It is Jordan’s and his teammates’, though.
I don’t have many rules, but one of them is “No athletes.” Not as lovers, not as friends. Not as anything. Yet in the past couple of months, I’ve screwed an athlete, become friends with one, and taken on a stable of them as clients.
Part of me feels like I’ve stepped through that freaky wardrobe man cave entrance of Jordan’s and really entered an alternate universe.
One where I go to parties attended by athletes. My fucking origin story.
“Hey.” A huge, long-fingered, tatted hand that I’m intimately acquainted with lands on my leather-covered thigh and squeezes. Icovertly peer down at my bra-covered nipples, grateful to see the lightly padded black cups concealing the hardened tips. “You okay? If you really don’t feel like going tonight, I understand.”
Turning to him, I rummage up a bright, cocky smile that has become my signature. How I’ve learned to face the world.
“I’m good. And for the record, I’m not moping over Antonio.” He slides me a look that clearly says “I call bullshit,” but I hold my hands, leaning back against my seat. “No, seriously, I’m not. Hell, I’d only been dating him for a few weeks. He was a nice guy. Had that John Legend thing going for him. Y’know, sexy, personable, supercreative. And incredibly smart.”
His fingers flex the tiniest amount on my leg, but I don’t miss it. Anytime he touches me, no matter how small, how soft, the tremor that ripples through me could initiate an apocalyptic event, leaving my body a dystopian wasteland.
Yep, that deep.
Another reason I had to friend-zone him.
Only one thing is allowed to create that kind of energy, that level of excitement in me. Anything, or anyone else, that stirs that intense of a reaction should be booted from your life. Past experience has taught me that harsh lesson, and I failed it with a flaming bright F. Want too hard, need too much, and you might as well hand-deliver that person your power, your dignity, with a glitter-sprinkled bow.
If I had any common sense, I would’ve shut this “friendship” thing down as quick and hard as he’d made me come ... the first time. But for some reason that I still can’t understand—or am afraid to analyze too closely—I couldn’t. Because even indulging in cataclysmic, albeit horribly misguided, sex doesn’t change the fact that Jordan Ransom, with his ridiculously beautiful face, gorgeous body, wicked sense of humor, and magic peen, has never once treated me like a weirdo. Or handled me like I’m a spun-glass figurine on a high shelf, seconds from teetering off, crashing to the floor, and splintering into hundreds of pieces.
Worse ... worse, he’s my muse.
For that alone, I couldn’t let him walk away. Even if it means insulating myself with a thick layer of bright-yellow caution tape.
Friends. That’s all I can allow and still keep him.
Because more would be disastrous.
For me.
“Then what was the problem?” he asks, his deep, gravel-smoothed-by-sand voice calm. Although that slight flex carried a hint of edge.
I loose a sigh and look out the window, a faint pulse of disappointment echoing in my chest like a shout in a vast cave.
“I dropped my wallet, and he saw my Mensa card.”
