Chapter Thirty
Rory
Fuck it all.
If the way I reacted in the gym is any indicator, I really need to get my arse back to London.
Fucking maniac.
Sitting in the pickup truck, I start the ignition, knowing I need to move.
The first thought to cross my thick head when I’d heard her squealing was that she’d fallen and hurt herself. The second, after I’d rushed in, seeing that fucker with his arms wrapped around Fin, was that it was him I’d like to hurt.
Like to.
Seriously.
Still.
Was he the ex-husband? Because the way he’d looked at her as she’d put a bit of space between them was proprietary—like if I’d looked hard enough, I’d find his name stamped on her somewhere.Like I haven’t already looked hard enough.Nah, he wasn’t her ex; she was too relaxed. But for Christ’s sake, it was like he was goading me—his eyes scanning her up and down like he was picturing what was under her clothes.Probably for a spot of self-abuse later.And watching him watch her created a knot in my stomach the size of a fucking ball. Fuck knows how I’d forced myself to just stand there as the meathead’s eyes all but fell out of his fucking head. I wanted badly to grab the bastard, to punch him into the understanding that he couldn’t leer at her like that.
I’m a fucking maniac. And I’m losing the plot, clearly, especially as I’d told him to let her go.
In no uncertain terms.
Back. The. Fuck. Off.
How did I get from something casual to wanting to tear off someone’s limbs?
It’s only my sanity that keeps me in the truck. I can’t afford to go back. Can’t let my feelings show, especially as I can’t make sense of them myself. And something tells me she wouldn’t welcome being thrown over my shoulder and dragged off to bed. But that’s exactly what I want to do; erase the imprint of his gaze by placing my fingerprints all over her skin. She’s so fucking cool, or at least she manages to pretend to be. Right up until the point of cutting to the chase when it becomes so fucking clear. She. Wants. Me.But how much?
I’ve had women play hard to get. Sometimes it works—adds to the thrill of the chase—and sometimes I just can’t be arsed and am more than happy to let them walk away. But this... This is something unfamiliar. Confusing. It’s like she’s afraid of acknowledging her wants.
And I think I’m playing the same game.
Yesterday, as she’d pulled up in her pal’s wee car, my steps had faltered, then sped up, though it took every ounce of my restraint not to rush at her. Pull her out of the thing. To feed her hands to the small of her back, to pin them there. To kiss her senseless, kiss her until she was boneless, held up against the car door purely by desire.And my dick.
I could see myself lifting her thighs around my hips, letting her feel how hard she made me, right there, pressed between her splayed thighs. I’d swallowed, almost tasting the salt on her skin as I imagined dragging my tongue down her neck, while loosening her buttons out in the open, the cold morning air aiding my quest to make her nipples hard peaks. I’d’ve kissed them then, my mouth and tongue warm. Lick and nip. Consume, as I’d carry her back to that tiny bed. I’d desperately wanted to lie her down, spread her out under me.Probably leave those boots on her, the first time, at least.Then fuck her so hard she’d still be feeling me the following week.
Yeah, I might’ve given it a little more thought than I should.
I’d opened the door, the floral smell of her perfume preceding a flash of thigh where her dress draped. But when she looked up into my face, I was a goner. Pink, full lips with just a hint of gloss. It took me back to that first night when she’d propositioned me at the pub. What they say about men—and mouths and any kind of lip gloss—is the truth. And right then and right there, I wanted to see those lips wrapped around my cock. Not the most original thought, but as an encore I wanted to see them covered in my come.
I’d held out my hand, not that she’d needed my help, but more for the opportunity of contact, but when I’d failed to ask what happened to her on Saturday night—Jesus, her face! She’d lifted a chin, a wee bit imperious, so I thought I’d wind her up and annoy her a bit more.
What I’m coming to like second best about Fin—first, naturally, is being inside her—is making her pissy, then making her spin. And, just as I think this, my smile is quick to grow... and quick to fall as I realise I’m fucking drunk on the woman. That I shouldn’t be loving the experience. I’ve enough going on in my life without getting involved with a woman that makes me feel like this. Add to the fact that she’s just coming out of a marriage—at least, I don’t think she’s been divorced long—she won’t be looking at getting involved. It had seemed like a fairly good reason to screw her earlier, but the way she looks at me and the responses she draws from me, really, all of the facts, as opposed of all of the feelings, tell me this is a terrible idea. I lower my idling foot and the engine roars, and then after opening the windows, hoping to blow the cobwebs from my eyes, as I push the lever into drive.
Of course, it might’ve been cooler had I avoided spinning the wheels in the gravel like a lovesick teen.
