Thrill Seeker (Sinful in Seattle)

His eyes went wild again. Dark pools dragging me under. He left my breasts and dragged me in so his mouth could take. There was no giving at this point. He just kept taking. Like he was leeching all of the danger and adrenaline out of me and using it to power up.

His hands raced down my sides to my thighs and beyond. He found the slit in my skirt and dragged it up, his short nails scraping up my skin with each inch he revealed. His mouth never wavered.

He never stopped.

My numbness dissipated.

I couldn’t stop feeling. Couldn’t stop this train if we’d had a fleet of cops behind us. We stumbled back to the concrete support beam and he knocked the breath out of me.

He crouched in front of me. I wasn’t prepared for this kind of action. The dress I wore required pantyhose that would smooth everything out. I tugged at his hair. “Max, I—”

The rip of nylon made me gasp. Evidently, that wasn’t a factor. He tore at them, peeling them away until my royal blue lace panties were his only barrier.

His breath was hot against my chilled flesh. Adrenaline had been replaced with the endorphin rush of this moment. My skin was a wash of goosebumps and sensitivity.

Things like this didn’t happen to me. I had safe sex after the prerequisite six or so dates that I felt was sufficient to think about a physical relationship.

I didn’t have sex in a parking garage with a man like Max Chapel.

Well, I hadn’t—but it was going to happen now.

It damn well better happen.

He pulled me away from the concrete. Were we going to go to his house now? I wasn’t sure what I’d do if I had that much time to think.

My thighs shook as he turned me around. The thrill shot up my body. His hands were rough and demanding as he urged my legs open. His thumbs made lazy circles at the back of my knees. So incredibly incongruous to how he’d touched me so far.

He curled his fingers around my ankles until they were as wide apart as he wanted. I wore heels. I always wore heels. Vanity, height, pure masochistic tendencies—whatever it was, I owned it. I loved them. Loved the way they make my legs look, how they made me walk.

They were the one feminine thing I could never skimp on.

But they also pushed my ass out.

God, I was on display to him.

How could he want me like this?

How could I want it so much?

The rough cement dug into my palms as I held on. More like supported myself. Every part of me shook in excitement and fear and reaction. I didn’t know which one was going to take over.

I’m not entirely sure I cared.

I just wanted this to go on and on.

His fingers trailed a lazy path up my ankles to the back of my knees. The nip of his teeth at the inside of my thigh made me jump. “Max.”

He growled against my skin. “Keep saying my name, Miss Barrows, and I’m going to lose it.”

The fact that he’d changed from Georgia to the more formal use of my surname made it worse somehow. It stole the familiar and made this even more removed from reality.

His nose brushed along my bare skin. He’d ripped my hose open until there was no part of me that he couldn’t reach. And now I couldn’t see what he was going to do. Staring at the stark gray of the support beam was worse than a blindfold. Half of an A had been part of some graffiti tag and was partially washed away.

And this man was crouched behind me with my ass on display.

How was this my life?

He pushed up my skirt and the damp air made me shiver. With each inch he revealed, he tore at the hose until it was a mere suggestion of black nylon. My legs were open and I was so freaking wet.