Page 23 of Wrecked
He did not want to walk away; he wanted to grab her around the waist and take her inside, into her room with all its ruffles and girly shit, and fuck her on her bright pink duvet, kiss that sexy mouth, spread her soft thighs and sink deep inside her.
He wanted to make her his. Tell her how she was the only woman he wanted, would ever want.
He cleared his throat. “Yeah, we’re finished.”
“Wonderful.” She climbed back onto her chair and, he noted, made no move to turn down the music, not that that had been the problem in the first place.
No, Piper was his problem, plain and simple.
Reluctantly he turned away, left her where she was, delectable ass on display for anyone who drove past to see, and walked back to his apartment. Once inside, he tried to think of something else, anything else. Tried to get her out of his head, but it was impossible. He couldn’t forget the way she looked, the way she’d felt against him. Images real and imagined filled his head, and his cock continued to throb so hard he fucking ached for her.
Pissed with himself but unable to stop, he went to the window, eyes locking on the pure temptation that was Piper West. Sweet, caring, and sexy as all hell. He should be there with her. If things were different, if he could turn back the clock—he’d be Piper’s man. He’d be there helping her paint the goddamn windows, and afterward, he’d carry her inside and wash her off, fuck her in their shower, make love to her in their bed.
Jesus. He’d lost his goddamn mind.
Growling, he gripped his erection through his jeans, squeezing to relieve the pain. It didn’t work, of course, not by a long shot.
Undoing the button, he yanked down the fly and released his engorged cock. Taking it in hand, he gripped the bench with the other so his legs didn’t buckle underneath him and tugged on his erection, hard, almost brutally.
He didn’t look away from Piper as he fucked his fist hard enough to force all the oxygen from his lungs. Relentless pulls of his aching cock while he watched her paint her windows, ass swaying as she sang to her music. And the whole time he imagined her mouth on his, the taste of her on his tongue. How it would feel to have her hand, her mouth, her body gripping him. The way she’d sound when she was close. Would her voice be soft and breathy or demanding and urgent?
When he sank deeper would she claw at his back, or would she wrap herself around him and hold him tight?
Would she beg for it harder, faster, deeper, before she shattered around him, tightening mercilessly around his cock?
“Ahhh…shit.”
He was a sick son of a bitch. Getting off watching a woman who could never be his, like a fucking Peeping Tom, but he couldn’t stop. His cock had never been so hard, the ache never so all-consuming. His balls drew up tight to his body, and he bucked into his fist. Reaching out, he grabbed one of the towels he’d left stacked on the kitchen table and came into it with a shout. Long wrenching pulls that didn’t end until he was desperate for breath and could barely stay on his feet.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d come so hard, definitely not since before his accident. Only Piper did this to him.
But coming into a towel in your kitchen while spying on your best friend’s younger sister, that was a new low even for him.
All he felt now was hollow—and alone.
He yanked up his jeans and stumbled back several steps so he could rest his ass against the back of the couch. The disgust with himself over what he’d done hit hard, twisted in his stomach.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
Moving here was a huge mistake.
Nothing good could come from him living next to her. It would only fuel his obsession for Piper. Because that’s what it was. He felt like he was hanging by his fingertips and was this close to letting go. It scared the shit out of him.
But what could he do? He was stuck. He owed Deke, and now that he realized how isolated she was here on the weekends and after work, he couldn’t leave her, even if he wanted to.
He also couldn’t have her. He had to ignore the flashes of heat he saw in her eyes when she looked at him. A man like him didn’t deserve happiness. How could he allow himself to be happy when Kate and Davey suffered every day because of what he’d done? Kate had lost the love of her life. Their son had lost his father.
No, he didn’t deserve happiness.
Chapter Eight
Piper clasped her hands together in her lap and silently prayed for her disastrous date to come to a quick and painless end.
She glanced over at Gerald, hands ten and two on the steering wheel, the captain of his ship. And by ship, she meant the most boring car in the history of cars. The beige Chevy Malibu was currently cruising at an adrenaline-pumping twenty-five miles per hour.
Guilt made her inwardly wince. Gerald really was a nice guy. So nice. Definitely a step up from her previous date a few days ago. Richard had been the first to reply to her profile on Perfect Match. He’d also lied about his height. In fact, she was pretty sure he’d used someone else's picture entirely. The guy had eaten with his mouth open, talked about himself nonstop, and made her pay for half the dinner…down to the last cent. Which was fine, she didn’t mind going Dutch. But he’d actually kept a running total, jotting it down in a little notepad.
By the end of the night, she’d been desperate to get home to her book, where the hero was all alpha, taller than the heroine, and was actually interested in what she had to say. He certainly wouldn’t frown and purse his lips unhappily when she was a buck short with her half of the tip.
