Page 37 of Fallen Rider
He groans. “Fuck.”
I sit up, coming to my elbows as my face flames. I’m glad for the poorer light out here, hiding my reaction.
Did I do something wrong?
The man just got between my legs and cursed and I know there’s nothing wrong down there. He’s been down there before.
He scrubs a hand over his face.
“I want you, Kenz.”
Clearly not. I shove my top down, covering my exposed stomach and try to free myself from under him, but the man is big, not to mention heavy, and he’s straddling my hips. I can’t move.
He grabs my wrists, stopping my struggles. My stomach churns as I glare up at him.
My breath rips out of me, and I watch as his face falls.
“You’re looking at me like I’m the worst piece of shit right now. I don’t like it.”
I hate seeing the hurt in his face, and I don’t know why.
He lets me up and I scrabble to sit. Then I snag my phone from the grass where it fell.
“What do you expect? You start to do things down there and then curse. What am I supposed to think, Dane?”
To my astonishment, he laughs. “Fuck, yeah, that was probably kind of stupid.”
I nod my agreement.
“I want to continue this, baby,” he says, brushing my hair out of my face. It’s a little wild from him kissing me. I must look like a crazy woman, but his eyes are roving over me like I’m anything but. “I want to take my time with you, and I don’t want to get caught midway by one of my club brothers—or worse, one of your club sisters.” He kisses the side of my head in a gesture that is so gentle, it makes my stomach dance. “Those women gossip.”
“Then what do you propose?” I type in and let it play.
“I have a room here. I’m hoping you want to go upstairs and continue what we started.”
A room.
In between my legs pulsates with need. I’m already slick down there, ready for him. He was working me up with just the few touches he gave me a moment ago. But there’s a difference between an unplanned fumble on a bench to a planned walk through the building to his room. This is more calculated. There’s no defence for this. It’s not a case of ‘it just happened’.
But it doesn’t need to be more than what it is.
Dane and I will never be more than this night—something I’ve told myself repeatedly, yet I always seem to end up in his bed.
I nod slowly, and he grabs my hand, his fingers rough against mine and pulls me to my feet. I straighten my clothes, and he cups my breast when I’m done before he kisses me again.
What am I doing?
