Page 54 of The Front Runner
“I’ve got it.” With two long steps Stefan is right in front of me, one knee down and reaching for the strap. The sight of him kneeling before me unexpectedly takes my breath away.
His warm hand wraps around my ankle, and I shiver. His movement pauses, but his head stays down. I watch his fingers move deftly, gently tucking the strap back through the gold buckle. When it’s back in place, he continues holding my ankle like he’s entranced by the sight of my dark red toenail polish.
But then his hand slides up the back of my calf and he looks up at me, green eyes boring into mine with so many unsaid words, looking at me like I’m the most incredible thing he’s ever seen. So much overflowing emotion.
My lungs seize, and I don’t try to stop myself from getting lost in his emerald gaze. The seconds tick by as the pads of his fingers slide along the back of my calf. I feel the softest contact so intensely. The warm hum of electricity races up my inner thigh. I clench my core against the growing heat and roll my lips together to stifle a moan.
With a simple clearing of his throat, he stands, leaving my body begging for him to return his hands to my bare skin.
His fingers encircle my wrist like a bracelet. His lips press against my palm tenderly and my stomach drops. Like it always does around him. “We should go,” he says, letting go of my arm and walking toward the door looking completely unaffected. But me? I still need a few seconds to come back down to earth.
Something between us just shifted. I just can’t tell for the life of me what it is or what it means.
All I know is that I wanted his hand on my leg to keep going.
I wanted his lips on my skin.
18
Stefan
The long ridedowntown to the Vancouver Club, some ritzy private hangout, is filled with tension so thick you can feel it in the town car. My intense attraction to Mira, paired with the lance of agitation I felt when she referred to our date as fake, makes me want to shove her flimsy silky dress up around her waist and bury my face between her legs—driver be damned.
I’d love to ask her how fake we feel after I make her come so hard she can’t see straight.
But I won’t. I said I’d make her beg. I said I wouldn’t kiss her. Despite what she might think of me, I’m a man of my word. An honest man.
So, we ride in tense silence on opposite sides of the black leather seat. At one point, the driver turns up the music to fill the space. I’m sure he thinks we’re some couple who’d just had it out and hate each other’s guts.
Little does he know the tension between us is because we both want to rip each other’s clothes off. But Mira is pretending to be completely oblivious to our chemistry. She’s smart enough to recognize what’s going on between us, she’s also masterful about avoiding it.
Maybe after tonight, it will be clearer to her what type of man I really am.
I tip the driver when he pulls up to the old stone building, and he beats me to Mira’s door to open it for her. The man smiles at her and scowls at me, like I’ve been a prick—and I guess I have. Truthfully, I rage-played Mario Kart on my phone the entire way here rather than attempt to make small talk with her.
Mira just stared out the window.
I wish she’d tell me what she’s thinking, but I know she’s not the type of woman who spills all her deepest thoughts and feelings at the drop of a hat. That’s part of what I like about her. She’s like a vault, and once I figure out the code, I’ll get that side of her.
I could keep her secrets. She could be soft with me. She could let loose with me, and I’d still stand back and let her be the fiercely independent woman she is. I don’t want to tame her; I just want a front-row seat to watch her win the race.
She steps out of the car and thanks the driver with a gentle smile. I’m instantly jealous. I want her smiling at me, not ignoring me. I want her looking at me the way she did when I ran my hand up her leg.
I settle for letting my hand fall against the small of her back as we walk up the front steps of the opulent club. A small gasp spills from her lips when I touch her exposed skin. I’m accustomed to doing this when she has a shirt on, not a backless dress. And with nothing between us, my hand tingles and my thumb strokes the dip at the column of her spine of its own volition.
I can’t help myself around her.
It’s probably too cold outside for what she’s wearing, and she presses into my side incrementally. I slide my hand further, cupping her hip. The dress is so thin I can feel the lace strap of her panties through it.
We enter through the front door into the heritage building and take another small set of stairs toward the ballroom. Creams and golds line the crown mouldings on every wall, and tall windows boast red velvet drapes. Chandeliers drip with crystals and beads. The place screams money.
We stop at the door, and she looks up at me, slightly wide-eyed. Her makeup is heavier than usual tonight. Her hair is silky and shiny, like polished onyx. Whether she realizes it or not, she’s the most beautiful woman in the room and it’s not even close.
“Let’s go. Might as well enjoy this last fake date. There will be lots of familiar faces.” The words are bitter in my mouth, and I try not to let the distaste show on my face.
Mira nods and gazes back into the room. “Then we need to keep a professional distance.” I want to protest because I don’t give a damn about these people. I want her right here, tucked into my side for everyone to see. But before I can say anything, she steps away, turning heads as she makes a beeline for the bar.
I watch the sway of her rounded hips, the swell of her firm ass, her dainty ankles in those heels. I want them propped up over my shoulders while I slam into her.
