Page 58 of Unwrapped

“I figured you for one of those corporate types, always glued to his cell or laptop…scoring the next merger or deal.”

“You finally got something right. I’m a CEO.”

“I knew it,” I snort, smacking the back of his leather seat.

“How about you…what’s a cougar doing hunting in our backwoods?”

“Did…did you just call me a cougar! I’m barely over thirty! You just can’t be nice can you, not even for a damn five-minute drive.”

“Maybe if you took that stick out of your ass…you’d have a sense of humor. Christ, you’re wound tight.”

“I am pretty tight.” I retort off handedly.

“F me, fur baby. We either gotta do this or Stay out of each other’s way. Which is it gonna be?” Our eyes meet in the mirror. I lick my lips. He hisses, slamming the brakes and we skid before coming to a stop and he puts the truck in park.

I yelp as the back door is ripped open. He stands there, staring at me crouching in the dark. Wondering. Waiting for him to make a move.

“Tell me no and this ends right here. I’ll shut the door turn the truck back on and pretend this thing between us doesn’t exist.”

I crook a finger, beckoning him closer. Instead he grabs my ankles pulling me out of the cab and into his rock-hard body.

“I’m cold.”

“How can that be, when I’m burning?” His lips find my forehead, my nose, my mouth. Hot damn, the man can kiss. Our tongues duel and dance. He grunts as I pull back panting for air.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m dizzy. From your kiss, from alcohol…probably both.”

“I knew you liked me.”

His smirk snaps me out of my lust-filled haze. I grab his by the fist and pull him back down to me. “This is pure animal attraction. Hormones. Pheromones. Whatever. Like has nothing to do with it; understand?”

“I couldn’t agree more,” he grunts, hooking my legs high around my waist and finding the side of my neck with his tongue. He nibbles, bites and licks his way to my collarbone then pushes my sweater up exposing my satin bra to his touch. He uses his mouth to push the fabric aside and find my aching bud waiting for his touch.

I moan, sliding back into a different dimension. One where nothing else exists but the way he’s making my body feel. He seems so familiar but, in my alcohol, altered state of mind I can’t figure out why. It’s like we’ve loved before. Touched before. Which is insane because I know we haven’t when I could barely stand to breathe the same air as him.

“Fuck. You’re sweet. Taste…feel so good,” he growls against my breast. He pulls back his lips wet from loving me and breathes hard.

“More.”

“No. You’re half drunk, cupcake. I want you fully admitting how much you want me inside you. I want to see that sassy mouth of yours beg for my cock, sugar.”

The icy air couldn’t sober me up but his cocky as fuck attitude sure as hell does. “Actually, You’re right. I can’t wait to sober up so I can fully enjoy watching you beg to feel my warm as a Dutch apple pie, fucking pussy clenching around said cock.”

He grins, “Damn baby. That mouth turns me the fuck on.” He moves a hand to the fly of his jeans, and cups himself not in the least embarrassed by the massive bulge beneath.

The throb between my thighs won’t quiet even though I feel like a won a round. I climb back into the back of the truck and pull my clothes back in place. Neither of us speak back to the inn. He parks and like a gentleman, opens my door. But as he extends a hand to help me out, he doesn’t let go. He hauls me back up in his arms, carrying me up the stairs and straight to the kitchen counter where he instructs me to sit. He opens the fridge, hands me a fresh bottle of water and orders me to drink. He stands with his arms crossed and his hawk eyes watch me swallow until I finish the last drop.

“Good,” he grunts, then turns opens a few cabinets and finds a bottle of Advil. Three pills are put down next to a new bottle of water and he gets busy taking out food. Soon, the kitchen smells like frying bacon and eggs. Toast and hash browns.

My buzz is still strong but it’s getting weaker by the minute.

“Eat,” he orders, placing a breakfast sandwich with a steaming side of potatoes on the counter in front of me.

I dive in, chewing and moaning like a starved woman. I pick up my fork, waggling it at him. “You’re being too nice. I don’t trust it.”

He sighs, at the sink where he’s washing the dishes and, in his jeans, —that ass of his is looking mighty fine. “I’m actually a nice guy. It’s just you who wants to paint me as a bad one.”

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