Ride Hard (Raven Riders 1)

Dare’s cock throbbed as a dull ache settled into his balls.

She stepped closer. “Dare?”

He leaned his head close to hers so that his lips brushed against her ear. As he spoke, she shuddered, and the reaction did nothing to cool his blood. “Do you know what you’re doing right now?”

One of her hands gripped his shoulder. “I’m trying to live, to be a normal girl, to have fun.” She pulled away enough to peer into his eyes, and the desire in hers was so fucking blatant that he wasn’t sure how he resisted tossing her over his shoulder, taking her to one of a half dozen places he could get to in under a minute, and burying himself deep inside her sweet little body. Hell if he wasn’t a dirty old man. Her hand dragged from his shoulder down his chest, where it rested. “That’s all,” she said. “You should join me.”

He raised an eyebrow and gave her a small nod. “Have whatever you want, Haven,” he said, meaning the words in all kinds of ways he had no business meaning them.

“I want a Blow Job, Jeb,” she said, grinning at the prospect.

“That’s what he said!” someone called to the group’s amusement.

“You want a regular one or a mini?” Jeb asked, his gaze cutting between her and Dare. But Dare wasn’t paying the bartender any mind. His eyes were all for Haven—he studied her expressions, the makeup painting her face, her smiles. Her delight was a physical presence all around her, and was likely what had drawn the crowd in the first place. Her pleasure was raw, honest, pure. And it was like she was the flame and they were all moths, drawn to her, unable to resist her light, her beauty, her heat.

Cora leaned closer, a big smile on her face. “You should do a regular one, because you drink this one without any hands.”

A confused expression swam over Haven’s features. “How the heck does that work?”

“Make it two,” Cora said, winking at Jeb. “I’ll show you.”

Jeb topped off the Baileys and Kahlua with a big dollop of whipped cream on each shot. “Here you go, ladies. Two Blow Jobs.”

“Okay,” Cora said, making a show of lacing her hands behind her back. “This is how you do it.” She bent over, wrapped her mouth around the top of the glass, and then stood upright and tilted her head back until the small glass was empty. The crowd went nuts for the little show, and even more with the anticipation that Haven would be repeating the act.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” Haven said with a laugh. “But I’m definitely going to try.” Her gaze cut to Dare, her smile parts mischievous and uncertain. Then she shrugged and laced her hands behind her back. “Here goes nothing.”

Dare’s gaze was glued to Haven—how her lips swallowed the whipped cream and wrapped around the glass, how her eyes fell closed as if in pleasure, how her throat worked around the long swallow of the liquor. He threw back the rest of his whiskey, the bite taking the sharpest edges off his arousal—which wasn’t fucking saying much. When Haven was done, she slammed the little glass on the counter and threw her arms up in victory. Everyone around her cheered and clapped her on the back, but all Dare could see was the flat, firm surface of her bared stomach from how her shirt rode up.

Haven Randall was maddening. Sweet yet sexy. Innocent yet provocative. Beautiful yet seemingly unaware of what she was doing to him. Hell, him and probably every other man around the bar.

She hugged Cora.

Dare laid his fingers on the bare skin of her side, and Haven jumped a little as she turned to see who was touching her. His intensions had been honorable—to encourage her to drink some water before she ended up learning about the not-fun side of drinking, the side that put you on your knees and made you promise to any god who would listen that you’d never drink again if only they would end your suffering.

But the way Haven’s dark pink lips dropped open and the way her eyes went hooded and soft when she realized Dare’s hand cupped her skin momentarily short-circuited his brain. “That was so much fun,” she said, closing the distance between them. “What should I do next?” She stood just shy of pressing her front against his, and the sliver of distance was pure hell.

The name of every innuendo-filled cocktail Dare could imagine flitted through his head, but the last thing he wanted was any of those words coming out of her lips in front of a bunch of his brothers.

“How about a Sloe Comfortable Screw?” Jeb asked. “Do you know what that one is?”

She shook her head but kept her eyes glued to Dare’s. “No, but it sounds good,” she said, that eyebrow quirking up just a little again. “Really good. Tell me.”