No Saint (Wild Men 6)

Why can’t I deny it?

“Well, see, that’s an issue. I’m the one doing the fucking around here, but I’m getting the feeling you’re backing out.”

I can’t look at him anymore, sitting on his bike, sexy and dangerous with his spiky blond hair, his angry eyes and the bulge of his arousal between his splayed legs. He’s right, he’s so right and I need to get out of here now.

“Luna,” he whispers, the anger draining from his voice, “Luna, you just... Ah fuck, just go.”

I’m already turning away, but I frown at that, the slip, the slight crack in the words. Halfway through the empty garage bay, I stop and make the mistake of glancing at him over my shoulder.

His unguarded expression hits me like a punch, and I realize that I may have often looked at him but that I’m really seeing him for the first time.

There’s pain in his eyes, sharp like a thorn, and it keeps me fixed on the spot, unable to move away. This isn’t about what we just did, about sexual frustration, annoyance or vindictiveness. It looks more like sadness, and that’s what gets me, what hooks me and catches me.

But then he notices me watching him, and in a blink it’s all gone from his eyes, the sadness, the pain. All that emotion, poof, gone as if it’d never been there in the first place.

Did I imagine it?

He smirks, a crooked dark thing, one side of his wide mouth turning up, as he dips his hand between his legs and starts unbuttoning his jeans. “Well, sweets, lo

oks like I’m gonna have to take care of this myself,” he drawls, his long fingers snapping the buttons open one by one, slowly, teasingly. “You seem interested, though. Wanna stay and watch me jack off? I promise a spectacular finish. You can lend me a hand—”

“No.”

His smirk turns sharper, allowing a glint of tooth. “Suit yourself. Don’t wanna get your lily-white hands dirty, is that it? Don’t wanna roll in the filth with me? If my fingers were so good...” He runs his tongue over his lips, and a thrill runs through me, half annoyance and half desire. “... then imagine how my cock would feel inside you.”

I can’t help a small whimper.

He chuckles and he has every right to be amused. I’m still standing there like a fool, my heart banging around in my chest, my pulse way too loud in my ears. God, I want to see, I’m dying to see him bared, see him do what he just promised—release his cock from his jeans, jack off, lose control in front of me. Show me who he really is to quiet all the questions churning inside my mind.

As if revealing his hard-on, the hard cock I felt pressed against me as we kissed earlier, will unlock the mystery that he is turning out to be, reveal his real thoughts and feelings. There’s a power there, I guess, at watching someone come apart, being at their most vulnerable as they give in to their bodies and pleasure, their release, unable to hold on to their facades and masks any longer.

I try not to think about the fact he has that exact power over me, that not only he saw me come but that he gave me that release, held me as I rode its waves.

I take a step closer, the throb between my legs returning as he shoves his jeans down just enough to dip his hand inside, curl it around his cock to pull it out—

“Hello!” an unfamiliar voice calls out from behind me, so that I whirl around with a gasp. A man is standing at the other end of the bay, looking right at us. “Is the garage open? I know the sign says closed, but I heard voices and the gate wasn’t locked, so...”

Ross curses.

Grabbing my shopping bags from the floor, I rush out of the garage, out onto the street, not stopping until the garage is gone from sight. Only then do I slow down, try to examine my actions, my reactions.

Here I am, being scared of what Ross might do when I’ve thrown caution to the wind. He makes me feel drunk, intoxicated, crazy with want.

Why, God, why can’t I stay away?

***

“What are you making?” Dad is hovering by my shoulder, smelling of wet earth after working in the garden all afternoon.

“Aunt Emily’s famous lasagna, obviously.”

“It doesn’t ... look quite right. Is it supposed to be so flat?”

“Dad, you’re making me nervous. Hell, you’re probably making the lasagna nervous, too. Why don’t you just go away and watch TV or something?”

He lifts his hands and backs away, an expression of exaggerated remorse on his face. “My apologies, great chef. Please continue. I won’t bother you again.”

“God...” shaking my head, trying not to laugh and not to cringe when I look at what I’ve made. Who am I kidding? It doesn’t look one bit like Aunt Emily’s lasagna.