Her lips form a mutinous line. “It’s my car, so I’ll drive.”
I’ll admit, I’m not above slipping my hand up her skirt to cup her pussy, which has soaked her underwear and radiates heat. I touch her lightly. Teasingly. Her eyes darken.
“Are you prepared to break land speed records to get there?” I ask.
She digs into her purse and hands me her keys. I unlock the driver’s door and she primly tugs her skirt down and stalks around to the passenger side, shooting me glares. If I hadn’t had my hand on her just seconds ago, I’d think she wanted to do me damage, but her body doesn’t lie. She craves me, just as I crave her.
True to my word, I follow her directions and arrive at her apartment building in record time. I park in the basement and she leads me to an elevator, then presses the button for the third floor. While the elevator travels upward, I wrap my arms around her from behind, drawing her into the shelter of my body. Her ass curves into my eager cock, and I pepper kisses along the length of her neck. She sighs, and relaxes into me, her eyes fluttering closed.
Fuck, she’s beautiful. And so freaking trusting. From here, there are so many ways I could hurt her, but she’s totally at ease in my arms, and something deep in my chest squeezes. I vow, from this minute on, that I won’t let anyone do wrong to this woman. I may have only known her for a few days, but somehow she’s wormed her way into my soul. She’s mine to protect. Mine to possess. And, if I have my way, mine to fuck. Only mine.
Finally, the elevator doors open, and I release Lena for long enough to drape my arm around her shoulders while she takes me to her apartment. She stops outside number 311 and pauses, key in the lock, then turns to look up at me.
“It’s nothing fancy,” she says, her expression uncharacteristically shy.
“Don’t care.” Mostly, I’m just charmed she invited me back to her place rather than trying to wrangle an invitation to mine. Her fingers fumble with the key, then she pushes the door open and enters, waiting for me to follow.
The apartment is small and well-kept. The door opens onto a living area with a couch at one end, a small coffee table in front, and a two-person dining table to the side. Behind the table is a kitchenette, and near the couch is a closed door that I assume leads to either her bedroom or the bathroom. She doesn’t own much—the place has a spartan feel about it—but there are potted plants on the table and kitchen counter. She catches me looking at them.
“They’re succulents.” Her lips twist wryly. “The only thing I can keep alive.”
“Except yourself,” I offer.
She laughs. “True. But like I said, nothing fancy.”
She seems to need reassurance, so I pull her against my side, bury my face in her hair, and murmur, “It’s cute, just like you.”
11
Lena
At this point, my courage is fading fast. I haven’t had a man in my apartment in ages. Especially not one like Jase, who could buy and sell it without even blinking, while I barely manage to make rent some weeks. I never brought Karson here. He always insisted on me visiting his place because it’s literally a mansion—his favorite things are living in luxury, and showing off. But Jase doesn’t seem to mind. His lips touch my forehead, and the gesture is so damn sweet I almost tear up.
“My bedroom is through here.” Taking his hand, I tug him toward the door beside the sofa before I have time for second thoughts. The walls are painted cream, the bedspread is pale blue—the same color as my eyes—and I only have one set of drawers and a closet, which is packed full of the outfits and the jewelry I took when I left home.
A connecting door leads to the attached bathroom, where I store my makeup and cosmetics, but Jase doesn’t need to see that, so I close it before he has time to peek. A pair of large, strong hands land on my shoulders, and his thumbs knead the tension from between my shoulder blades.
I moan. “Oh, my God. That’s so good.” I lean into his ministrations. “Don’t stop.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” His voice is husky and low, and reminds me of exactly why I invited him back here. I want this man to break my dry spell. I want the impressive erection I felt earlier sliding inside me. The sooner, the better. Before I start questioning my choices.
His clever thumbs continue working the tension from my back and shoulders, relaxing me bit by bit. He digs into a particularly tight knot and I whimper. He stiffens against me, his hands slipping, then recovers and dips his mouth near my ear.
“You make the hottest sounds.”
If I didn’t love the way he’s touching me, I’d be mortified. Instead I push closer and brush my ass into the front of his shorts, feeling once again how much he wants me.
“If you take off your shirt, I can make you feel even better,” he murmurs, his voice silky and so tempting it should be illegal.
Grabbing the hem of my blouse, I yank it over my head, then with a flick of my fingers, I dispose of my bra and present my bare back to him. Somehow, the fact I can’t see him only makes it more erotic when I hear his quick intake of breath and feel the quiver of his fingers before he resumes the massage. His scent wafts over me. Deep heat and earthiness that’s so masculine I can’t stand it. Turning, I burrow my face into his chest, inhaling the wonderful manliness of him.
Instantly, his hands go to my tits, curving around them. Shivering, I rock into his lower body, and at the same time, whip his shirt up so I can taste the skin of his chest. He releases me and wrestles the shirt off, then gathers my breasts in his palms and drops his head to lick them. The tip of his tongue flicks my nipple, then the flat of it glides over, soothing.
“Oh.God.” My knees quake. Clutching his head, I keep him there, forgetting my mission to explore his own naked chest, but that doesn’t stop me from appreciating as much as I can see of it. Dark hair dusts him, enough to be noticeable, but not enough to be considered a pelt. The tattoos I’ve previously admired extend from his arms across his pecs, leaving a narrow strip of virgin skin down the center. In the future, I fully intend to trace the edge of his ink with my mouth. I’ll never get enough of him. He’s addictive as a double-whip mocha with hazelnut syrup.
His rough hands smooth down my stomach and into the waistband of my skirt, pushing it down. I slip it off, and then I’m standing in front of him in heels, the lacy scrap of my panties, and nothing else. He eyes me greedily, exactly like a virile alpha male who’s denied himself pleasure for far too long. Which, you know, heis.
“Holy fuck,” he mutters, his attention snagged on my underwear. “I can’t wait to tear that off and make you scream.” He shakes his head. “You call those panties? That’s a fucking wet dream right there.”
