Cherrie Lynn - Take Me On

“Listen, man, you go through what I’ve been through, you don’t have time for anything less.”

“Well, then, allow me to reciprocate.” He moved his mouth to her ear and spoke directly into it, allowing his lips to brush against the soft shell. Close enough to smell her hair, close enough to feel its softness against his nose. “I’d love to take you home and fuck you senseless, if that’s what you’re after.”

A full-body shudder went through her. He stepped back, seeing the desire clearly in her heavy-lidded eyes. She definitely wanted him to. “But I’m not going to,” he finished, watching it crash and burn. “For reasons I’ve already explained. So you can go on telling yourself I don’t like you if you want. Whatever makes you feel better about this.”

Collecting his beer from the bar, he cast her one last look over his shoulder as he moved off toward the pool tables.

He’d had the earlier thought that Satan had slid up on the barstool next to him. Oh no. Now she was Satan, and if looks could kill…he’d have her pitchfork buried in his chest. Or elsewhere on his anatomy where she could do maximum damage.

He couldn’t claim total victory, though, because those particular parts of his anatomy throbbed in time with the beat of his heart. Uttering those words to her and her visceral reaction to them had flooded his dick with heat, and the last thing he needed was to be sporting wood right under her nose.

Leaving was his best option, but a few guys he vaguely knew motioned him over to start up a game of pool, so he headed in their direction.

Aware all the while of Gabriella’s eyes on him. They were like fucking laser beams. Aimed right at his crotch. Jesus.

He tried to concentrate on the game, but damn if she didn’t move over to one of the neighboring tables and start up a game of her own. While he pretended to be aiming his cue stick, he was really scoping out her black-skirt-clad ass as she bent over to do the same.

He shot. And missed. She made it, as evidenced by her whoop and her male partner’s high-five.

“Fuck!” Ian bellowed, straightening and getting too much attention from the crowd over there—namely Gabriella’s.

“Dude, it’s all right.” His partner laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. Ian rubbed the back of his neck, eyeballing the way that one drunk asshole kept trying to put his hands on her. And the way she was allowing it, until she was ready for her next shot. Then she shoved him away and took up a position that had her facing Ian, bending over so her cleavage was shown off to its best advantage.

Ian felt a sudden sharp nudge in his side. “It’s your turn, man.”

Already? He snapped out of his funk, looking down at his own table. Naturally, the best shot he could take had him still facing her. He set up, trying not to glance up at her— don’t fucking look at her, you ignorant asshole —but yet again he found his gaze tangled up in hers. She moved that fucking cue stick back and forth through her fingers in an almost obscene rhythm. Just as he was about to moan aloud and embarrass himself, she smiled. Her eyes flickered down at her shot, and she took it.

A chorus of good-natured groans went up from her flock of admirers, and she gave an adorable pout as she straightened.

“What the hell are you waiting for, man?” one of Ian’s spectators asked.

“I think he’s too busy watching the show over there,” another said.

“Hell, for that matter, so am I.”

He wanted to jump up and break his stick over someone’s head. Instead, he channeled all his agitation into nailing the cue ball and easily pocketing his target. Thank Christ. He moved around to take his next shot, and his next, always with her in the corner of his eye. That group over there was getting rowdier by the minute, or maybe it was his imagination. She handled herself just fine without his intervention, but he was on high alert to give it at any moment.

He and his partner won their game. She and hers lost, judging by all the condolences she got from her new friends. Could they be any more obvious about wanting to get under her skirt? He wanted to get under her skirt too, but he wasn’t about to make a fucking idiot of himself over it.

Yeah, who was he kidding.

Someone offered a new game; he turned them down. For some reason, he wasn’t in the mood—could have something to do with that earlier thought about cracking a few skulls with the cue stick. But Gabriella Ross was certainly enjoying the hell out of herself and her admirers, having shaken off Ian’s rejection as if it had never happened.

Then again, maybe it hadn’t, which was what this was all about.

The conversation around him turned back to the ball game, where the Rangers were in danger of losing their lead as the Blue Jays had managed to load the bases. Tension in the bar reached a peak as the 0-3 pitch was delivered.

Strike. A collective sigh of relief went up.

Ian felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to see Gabby standing behind him, a cocky grin on her face. “Play me?”

Feeling all eyes on him, he shook his head. “Nah. I’m all played out.”

“I’ll make it interesting.”

“Oh yeah? How?”

She leaned close to his ear, mirroring the move he’d made on her earlier. Her whisper sent waves of chills up his spine. “If I win, you have to fuck me senseless.”

Cool rain pelted against Gabby’s skin as she and Ian left the noise of the bar behind them. Feeling Ian’s fingers slide between hers, she tilted her face up and let the rainwater wash over it just before he unexpectedly crushed his mouth to hers. She wound her arms around his neck, welcoming the plunder of his tongue and the quick flare of desire it brought.

He’d played. She’d won.

And God, he felt good against her. Hard and strong and, well, wetter by the minute. She could sympathize—so was she, and it had nothing to do with the rain.

His skin was hot beneath the cool slick of rainwater, and she explored it with greedy hands, needing the foreign feel of a complete stranger—or almost a stranger. His hands pressed against the small of her back, drawing her closer, and excitement tingled along her every nerve.

He was minding her tattoo, not touching her there. She smiled against his sweet lips, and he drew back to catch his breath.

“I didn’t expect you to play,” she said, their gently panting breaths mingling in the minute space between their lips.

“I didn’t expect you to win.”

“Maybe you let me.”

“I’m pretty sure I didn’t.”

“Maybe you…subconsciously let me.”

He chuckled, gazed at her a moment, then pushed her drenched hair back from her forehead with both hands. She cupped his strong jaw with her palms and studied his face.

Slightly aquiline nose, full mouth framed with five o’clock shadow. She’d been right about those eyes. They burned right down to her core. Her heart gave a little shudder as she thought again about how she didn’t know anything about him. A thin scar split his right eyebrow, and she wondered how he’d gotten it. Bar brawl, maybe? No way would this guy ever back down from a physical challenge. He stood nearly a full head taller than she, and Gabby didn’t consider herself short by any means. Built but not bulky, he exuded a raw power that could be attributed to the hard muscles she’d discovered beneath her wandering hands, but more likely to his take-no-shit attitude. Since he seemed like such a nice guy, she found the dichotomy fascinating.

It didn’t matter what she knew about him. He could give her what she needed, and Brian knew and trusted him. Several years ago, that wouldn’t have been a comfort whatsoever, considering the people Brian knew, but things were different now. And the mystique… Damn, it was such a turn-on.