Page 29 of Falling for the Pucking Bad Boy

Mischief glimmers in his green eyes, and he pushes his cheek out with his tongue. “Can you give me a minute?”

“Why—oh.” He has a hard-on, and the last thing he wants to do is show it off to anyone walking down the sidewalk. “Damn, that sucks.”

“You have no idea. Especially when I haven’t been able to use it since the last time we—”

“You haven’t had sex with anyone else since we—”

“Why would I do that?”

I give him a look and say, “Oh, I dunno...? Because you're a playboy who parties too hard and produces headlines like they’re going out of style?”

“I’m not so out of control that I can’t chill out my dick,” Wells explains as if reading my mind. “I know what I want. She’s standing in front of me.”

“Boy, you’re going to get us into so much trouble.”

“Not until we’re ready,” he claims confidently. “Until then, I’ll be on my best behavior and continue to win games for you.”

I smile up at him. “I don’t need you to do all that. Just do it for you and your team for that Stanley.”

“How else will I get you to come see me?”

He doesn’t need to make any more deals with me to get me to come out here. It’ll depend on how these next two days go and whether the attraction I felt for him and have been feeling for him remains.

And, if that’s the case, I have some significant thinking to do.

“So, do you like action movies, thrillers, romantic comedies? What’s your favorite?” Wells solicits, breaking through my inner monologue.

“I didn’t think we’d be watching what was playing.”

Wells groans slightly, and my lips coil into a playful smirk. “I’m really trying to behave here.”

“Please don’t,” I mutter. “I didn’t sleep with you because I thought you were a nice guy. I did it because I knew you’d rock my world.”

“Was that it?”

“Yeah. And I have a thing for bad boys.”

9

CHAPTER NINE

WELLS

In the cool spring air, I park the black-out SUV in a cozy spot towards the back of the drive-in theater. I open the moonroof to look at all the stars. It's the classic setup—big screen, open sky, and whispers of other moviegoers melding into the night air—the perfect place to keep things low-key for Rory and me.

From the corner of my eye, I steal glances at her. She's relaxed against the plush leather seat, a striking calm with tendrils of anxiety coursing through her muscles.

Shoulder-length cocoa hair falls perfectly around her jawline, sharp yet soft. There's something exotic about her, and I watch her light green eyes catching the flickers from the screen, mirroring the scenes we've both drowned out.

You couldn’t mistake the sexual tension in the air.

It’s been weeks since that first night we met. A torturous fantasy that I’ve replayed in my head repeatedly because it was that fucking mind-blowing.

I handed over the bags of take-out burgers and fries from our earlier stop to give her something to do with her hands.

The SUV feels more of our kind of place because we’re away from gawking eyes, and when we’re alone, we seem to become more ourselves.

Not that I mind being in the public eye. It’s where I tend to be anyway.

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