Page 86 of Pickled
Margie’s voice at the court door yanked us out of that moment. I jumped back from him, my hand tingling, and made a point of waving. “See you tomorrow, partner.”
Thunder grumbled in the distance, and everyone on the courts looked up. “That front wasn’t supposed to come in until this afternoon,” Gideon said.
A raindrop plopped, then sizzled as it hit the court. “We should go.” Gideon grabbed my hand, and I didn’t protest as the two of us ran through the open-air hallways, the lounge, and huddled under the canopy of the golf club bag drop.
“Where’s your car?” He had to shout to be heard above the rain that pummeled the canvas above us.
“I walked.” I shrugged and stepped into the downpour.
Gideon grabbed my arm and pulled me out of the monsoon. “I can walk. It’s not that far.”
“Wait here.” He shook his finger at me and jogged into the rain. He turned. “Don’t you dare move.” He sprinted to his Escalade, and in seconds, he screeched to a stop in front of me. Before I could open the passenger door, he appeared next to me, opened the door, took my bag, and tossed it into the back seat.
The interior was cool and smelled like expensive leather and his cologne. I buckled my seat belt and tried not to think about how close we were in the confined space.
“So, did you know we’re going to win tomorrow?” The windshield wipers thwacked on full speed, and the inside of the Escalade’s windshield started to steam up.
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because we want it more than anyone else out there.” He turned into my driveway and put the car in park. “Because we’re a team.”
I turned to look at him, and the intensity in his eyes made my breath catch.
“Piper.”
“We agreed. Saturday.” My words didn’t echo what my body wanted.
“I know what we agreed.” He reached over and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “But I’m tired of pretending I don’t want you.”
His fingers lingered on my cheek, and I found myself leaning into his touch. “Gideon…”
“Tell me to stop, and I’ll stop.”
I should have. Should have reminded him about the tournament, about staying focused, about all the reasons this was a bad idea.
Instead, I leaned across the center console and kissed him.
He groaned against my mouth, one hand threading through my hair while the other cupped my face. I’d been thinking about this kiss all week, remembering how he tasted, how he felt against me.
This was better than I remembered.
His mouth was hot and demanding, and when his tongue swept against mine, a whimper escaped through my lips, and I leaned as far toward him as I could. I needed more contact, more of everything.
“Jesus.” His breath was hot against my lips. “I’ve been going crazy all week.”
“Me too.” I kissed him again, harder this time, and he responded by pulling me over the console. I rested in his lap, honeymoon-style.
We kissed like teenagers, desperate and clumsy, all urgency and heat. When his thumb brushed across my bottom lip, I bit itgently, and the sound he made sent a rush of warmth through my body, starting between my thighs.
“I should go,” I whispered, knowing my lips were brushing his eyes. His gym shorts were no match for his massive erection, a solid, hard line that pressed into my ass.
“You should.” His hand slid down my neck, his strong fingers tracing my collarbone.
“The tournament—”
“Fuck the tournament.” His mouth found that spot just below my ear that made me shiver. “I want you, Piper. I want you so damn much I can barely think straight.”
Those words were what shattered my control. I grabbed the front of his shirt and kissed him again, pouring all of my frustration into him. He responded, one hand tangling in my ponytail while the other traced my nipple through my sports bra.
