Page 32 of Ruthless Enforcer

I come harder this time, her name a rough curse on my lips.

When I'm done, I lie there in the wreckage of my own control and laugh. I was going to school her, but she schooled me.

And now I know three things I didn't know ten minutes ago.

Clara Whitlock is a virgin.

She's not afraid of me.

And she wants me.

Which means I'm in serious trouble.

26

CLARA

Ididn't know I could get this wet.

The bathroom door locks behind me with a soft click, and I lean against it, my entire body trembling like I've been struck by lightning. My thighs are slick. My underwear is ruined. My heart is hammering so hard I'm afraid someone will hear it through the walls.

I move to the sink and grip the porcelain, staring at my reflection. My cheeks are flushed. My eyes are dilated, dark and glazed over with lust. My lips are puffy and pink, like my nipples feel.

The image of Gabriel's hand wrapped around himself, the casual dominance of it, the way he stroked slowly while holding my gaze—it's burned into my retinas. The way he said look at me like it was a command and a gift all at once.

I pull my borrowed jeans down just far enough. The cool air hits my skin and I shudder.

My fingers slip between my legs and I have to bite my lip to keep from making a sound. The house is full of people. Mandy is roaming around somewhere, and Gabriel is in that bedroom, still half-hard by the looks of him under that sheet, probably laughing at how thoroughly he's gotten under my skin.

I touch myself with quick, desperate strokes, my free hand pressed against my mouth. The fantasy is mine. The choice is mine. I imagine his hand instead of my own, imagine him behind me, imagine him saying look at me again while his fingers work inside me.

My breath comes in short, controlled gasps.

The orgasm builds fast and sharp, my muscles tensing, my thighs clenching. I come silently, biting the heel of my hand, my body shaking with the force of it.

For a moment, I just slump there, breathing hard, trying to remember how to be a person instead of pure want.

I clean up as best I can, washing my hands and splashing cold water on my face. My reflection is still flushed, still wrecked, but it's closer to acceptable.

Taking one more breath, I straighten my borrowed jeans and open the door. I walk through the house like Gabriel didn't just rearrange my entire nervous system. Like I didn't just touch myself thinking about his hands.

Like I'm not already counting the hours until I can be alone with him again—until we both say I do.

27

GABRIEL

Interstate 84 hugs the Columbia River Gorge like a dark ribbon dragged through wet slate. The rhythmic thump of the windshield wipers is the only steady metronome in an otherwise entirely unpredictable day.

I glance to the passenger side.

Clara has her bare feet tucked under her on the worn gray cloth seat of the beat-up Ford F-250 I commandeered. The oversized black sweatshirt—my sweatshirt—is pulled down over her knees, the sleeves cuffed twice so her elegant, ink-stained hands can peek out. She’s staring through the rain-streaked side glass, her green eyes wide, tracking the violent spray of the ocean. On her lap, there’s the legal pad she’s been drawing on.

Her hair is pulled into a ponytail, and her jewelry is stowed away safely. She looks like a coed, and she smells like rain and that raw, sweet heat that nearly made me lose my mind in a guest bedroom four hours ago.

“I liked your car more,” she says quietly, without looking away from the water.

I arch my brow. “As you should. It’s an Escalade.”