Page 2 of Pumped

Where is he?

Lights flash in my eyes and white spots appear in my vision. Bodies press into me, pushing me left and right, farther and farther away from our booth. Music blares in my ears, so loud it’s disorientating.

Where did the fucker go?

I struggle through the mass of elbows and shoulders and toes, feeling like I’m swimming against the current just to get to the edge of the dance floor. When I finally get there, I scan the club, looking for that head of dark, neatly trimmed hair, shoulders clad in a perfectly tailored white dress shirt, narrow hips filling out a snug pair of dress pants. I don’t see him.

I start toward the restrooms. I don’t know why I’m doing this—looking for fucking Owen. I don’t care where he is or what he does. It has nothing to do with me, and seriously, the less I know the better. But still, my feet take me down the narrow hallway, lit only by a weak line of light running along the middle of the floor.

The men’s room is at the end of the hall, and I weave my way past the line of girls waiting for the ladies’ room. I’m halfwaydown the hall when a hard body crashes into me from behind, plastering me face-first against the wall.

“Are you following me?” a voice growls next to my face.

Owen’s lips brush the shell of my ear. His breath is hot against my cheek. A shiver runs down my spine and every drop of blood in my body rushes to my dick, leaving me lightheaded and at a loss for words.

He’s a couple inches shorter than me, and I thought he was kind of scrawny, but the body pressed up against mine is hard and solid and strong. He has no trouble keeping me pinned against the wall, and for some crazy reason, my groin tightens with arousal. That itchy, too-big-for-my-skin feeling melts away, leaving me soft and pliant as the heat of Owen’s body seeps into mine.

He shifts and something long and stiff pokes me in the ass—his cock. Owen’s hard cock. The realization makes my dick throb in my jeans and a whimper escapes my mouth.

A hand slides down my back and around my side to my hip. Without thinking, I cover it with my own. Then taking ahold of it, I drag it around and curl his fingers around my aching bulge.

“Fuck.” Owen drops his head forward onto my shoulder and his hips buck, grinding his cock into my ass. “What are you doing to me?”

Before I can ask him what he means, the weight on my back vanishes. Disappointment hits me hard, like an unexpected wave, then suddenly, I’m being dragged back through the club toward the exit.

“What are you doing?” I yell at Owen’s back, but he doesn’t hear me over the loud music and screaming crowds. Or maybe he does and he’s ignoring me. “Where are we going?”

Owen’s grip on my wrist is so tight I don’t think I’d be able to break out of it. But instead of trying, I let him lead me out of the club and along the crowded sidewalks toward our hotel.

My heart is racing just as quickly now as it was in the middle of the dance floor. If anyone looked, they’d see the obscene bulge in my jeans. I feel like I’m adrift in the middle of the ocean, at the mercy of the wind and the currents. And the only thing keeping me from floating away is Owen’s fingers curled around my wrist. If he lets go of me now, I think I would drown.

How messed up is it that I’m happy he doesn’t let go? Not when we get back to the hotel. Not while we ride the elevator up to the twenty-ninth floor. Not when he pulls out his keycard and unlocks the door.

The door isn’t fully shut before Owen pushes me up against the wall again. Facing him this time. We’re nose-to-nose, lips an inch apart. He smells like old, worn-in leather, rich and earthy and just a bit sweet. The scent fills my senses and wraps around me like a deliciously weighty hug. My eyes flutter shut and my lips part as I sink into the feeling.

“Motherfucker.”

That’s all the warning I get before Owen crushes his lips against mine so hard I think I cut my lip on my teeth.

The shock of his attack makes me gasp and he takes the opening, plunging his tongue into my mouth. The invasion ripples all the way down to the soles of my feet.

Someone moans. Someone whimpers. I think that someone is me.

His body is hard against mine. He grinds his erection against my hip. My fingers dig into his waist as I hang on for dear life.

At the back of my mind, I know this is Owen—annoying, uptight, thinks he’s better than me. I’m supposed to hate him and he’s supposed to hate me. My sister is about to marry his brother and we’re technically going to be related.

But knowing all that only makes what we’re doing better. Hotter. Like we’re breaking the rules or going behind someone’s back, doing the thing we’ve been told not to do.

Owen grabs the front of my shirt, pulling me away from the wall and pushing me farther into the room. I stumble backward, just catching myself at the edge of the bed.

He stalks toward me, eyes dark and laser-focused, jaw set and determined, every muscle primed to pounce. He looks dangerous. Like he wants to tear me apart. Like he wants to hurt me. And all I can do is stand here and take it.

“Strip,” he growls and my body reacts to the order before my brain can process what it means.

My hands fly, ripping at my clothes and tossing them all over the room. Owen moves more slowly, unbuckling his belt and yanking it out of the belt loops. He winds it around and around his hand, then sets the coiled belt on a chair before reaching for the buttons of his shirt. One by one, he unbuttons them, revealing the dark hair covering his chest. He slides the shirt off his shoulders, shakes out the fabric, and carefully folds it into a neat little rectangle. It joins the belt on the chair.

Owen bends down to untie his shoes. He sets them off to the side, perfectly aligned, then takes off his socks and folds them into a ball. When he straightens, my breath catches in my chest. Jesus, he’s hot. Did I know that? How did I miss that?

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