Throw Down: Caged and Dangerous Book 1
His clean scent washes over me: soap, deodorant, and a hit of aftershave. He towers above me, so close I have to tip my head up to see his face. He’s glowering down his nose as he lets go of my shoulders and plants a hand either side of my head, caging me in.
Arousal simmers in my lower stomach, despite the threat that’s radiating from him. Despite a tiny voice in the back of my head telling me I should be feeling something else completely.
“Nothing’s fucking changed, has it?” he rasps. “You’re still the same.” He dips his head to whisper venomously, his breath gusting over the shell of my ear, sending a shiver through me that’s only half nerves. “A heartless, lying, little junkie bitch.”
Before I even think about it, I shove my hands against his hard chest, trying to push him away – because I get that he’s mad, but who the hell does he think he is? – only he doesn’t move a muscle. He just does that harsh, gritty chuckle he’s perfected over the years. The one that makes him sound like a viper.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I repeat. “I haven’t touched anything – alcohol or drugs – in over four years.”
He pulls his head back to look at me, just far enough so that I can see the sneering doubt on his face. “Sure you haven’t.”
His dismissal stings, but it shouldn’t. I was prepared for this. I already knew he thought the worst of me. “Believe whatever you want, but I’m completely sober.”
For a long moment, he doesn’t move. His face is hard, all angles in the dimness. The only light is coming from the glow of the streetlight outside O’Leary’s, and it barely reaches back here. But I can still see it. The look of barely contained rage that I’m growing to expect… but right now it’s combined with something else.
My nerve endings tingle, my pulse quickening at just the thought that he could still want me.
Maybe it’s because somewhere in the core of my being I still feel like he’s mine, that touching him is second nature, but my hand takes on a mind of its own and moves between our bodies to brush against the crotch of his jeans.
The contact is too familiar, I know that.
It’s something I could have done seven years ago, but something I should not be doing now. I don’t have any right to touch him – even if he is eating up my personal space and breathing the same tight seam of air – but I need to know. My body needs to know.
The pads of my fingers slide over coarse denim, and underneath I feel his hardness jammed up against the zipper.
He may hate me, but he sure as hell wants me, too.
Evan sucks in a rough breath. My hand freezes and I wait for him to shove it away. But he doesn’t. He tilts his head back a little, an aloof sneer making its way across the lower half of his face.
But he doesn’t pull back.
I blink up at him, barely believing that he’s letting me touch him like this…
Making me jump with how quickly he moves, his left shoulder drops as he puts his hand over mine and presses it firmly against the solid pipe in his jeans. “Well?” he demands gruffly. “You did this to me. You’re gonna take care of it.”
The bubble of wonder bursts.
His grip tightens as he pushes his hips forward, showing me just how rock solid he is. And how big. Not scary huge, but definitely a couple inches above average. I hadn’t forgotten, I’d just figured I’d overexaggerated in the shower over the years. But, nope. Really. No.
He closes in on me further. I’m pressed hard against the cold wall now, his hand still over mine, cupped over his hard heat, trapped between our bodies and pushing into my stomach. His eyes lower slowly, over my lips, down my throat, to my breasts. My tank top is low cut, and from his height he probably has a good view of my cleavage.
I feel my nipples tightening, aching within my bra, just knowing that his eyes are on me.
His jaw ticks, and for a moment I think he’s going to put his mouth on me – bite, nip, kiss – but then his eyes snap back up to mine again and he drawls, his voice low and taunting, “Don’t act like you don’t want to. Only thing you ever loved as much as blow was blowing me.”
A pulse of anger slices through my chest; at the same instant, I feel a clench deep inside, because I remember how his cock feels in my mouth. The silky softness of his skin wrapped tight around the steel underneath, the taste of male musk and clean skin…
He’s right. I want to do this.
It’s probably stupid. I can still feel the fury – the murderous loathing – that’s rolling off of him. I can see it in the way his trapezius muscles are bunched and tense, in the way his jaw is clenching and unclenching as he grinds his teeth.
But I want to taste him again.
It’s not smart, but it’s that simple. I can’t deny the deep throb I feel inside at the thought of taking him in my mouth.
I also can’t deny there are worse ways to say, I’m sorry for completely screwing you over, than getting him off. He sure as shit rejected my verbal apology. Maybe this one will have more impact.
“You’re right,” I murmur.
His eyes narrow and his jaw momentarily stops its movement; that’s the only sign that my admission surprised him. “Then get on your knees,” he orders.
Holding his gaze, I do...
Fight the Spark: Sons of Sinners Part 1
We emerged onto the deck and Connor paused, glancing around the small yard. Then he grinned at me. “The stage,” he said, pointing across the yard.
A drum kit had been set up near to the chain link fence at the back of the yard and a guitar and bass had been hooked up to two squat, battered amps. There was another rough looking amp a little way in front of the rest of the instruments, this one was hooked up to a microphone, which lay on top of it. There were extension cords running from the back door of the house to the equipment set up in the yard.
“You’re playing there?”
He nodded and opened his mouth to speak, but he was cut off by a deep voice yelling his name from the other end of the deck. “CONNOR! Finally! What the fuck took you so long?”
Then I saw him for the first time.
He was striding along the deck towards us, beer in hand, a huge grin on his face. If I hadn’t already been so completely besotted with Connor, I’m pretty sure I would have swooned. He looked like a movie star. Almost like a creature of mythology. Just like...wow. One of those guys who could probably have almost any woman he wanted just by clicking his fingers and pointing to his crotch.
His hair was dark and perfectly straight, but messy in a careless Hey! I just woke up like this! kind of way. His eyes were so incredibly blue – they looked like sapphires glinting from under dark, sculpted brows. They danced with amusement, like he was the only one in on a huge joke. His strong, incredibly masculine jaw was dusted with dark stubble.
He wore an old, grey Guns n’ Roses t-shirt with the sleeves cut off. His arms were covered in tattoos – two full sleeves of intricate and artistic designs: images, symbols, lettering, all flowing and curling into one another seamlessly.
He was board and muscular, his pecks stretching his shirt out slightly. His right bicep flexed, his tattoos rippling, as he brought his beer to his mouth and took a long, leisurely swig. His jeans were slung low, faded and worn out, and held up by a wide, leather belt. His black work boots were scuffed and battered – the laces were undone and hung down almost to the floor.
He was an education in rough, unkempt cool.
He exuded sin and sex.
And he ruined it all immediately.
As he reached us his eyes snapped down to mine and he blinked, before looking me up and down slowly, like a predator about to devour his prey. His gaze lingered on my lips and his smile faltered slightly, before transforming into an evil smirk.
“Ah, now I get it,” he said, looking back at Connor. “Did you fuck her in my truck on the way over here?” He reached down with one hand and, very slowly and very obviously, gripped his belt buckle and adjusted it slightly – the innuendo was pretty clear. “‘Cause that’s what I would’ve done...the stuck-up ones are always nice and tight.”