Page 19 of Draven

I block his path. “Let’s not. First, we’re going to redraw the boundaries. I’m the serving police officer here, not you, and while you are correct in stating that I’m not supposed to be working the case, I still have more right to be here than you.”

Almost as if I hadn’t spoken, Draven swans past me, grabs his helmet off his bike, and thrusts mine at me. “With any luck, a half hour ride will lower your blood pressure, Lola.”

“Didn’t you hear a word I just said?”

He looms over me with a helmet in each hand because I still haven’t taken mine from him. “Yes. Now, get on the fucking bike, or I’m leaving you here to make your own way home.”

“Just tell me why you didn’t read her the riot act.”

“What good would it do?” he says, his calm tone having the opposite effect on my raging insides. “She’s just a sad, lonely woman who liked having a bit of a fuss made over her. She knows she shouldn’t have done it, but me going to town on her won’t achieve anything.”

“What about the investigation? They still believe she’s a key witness.”

“The FBI will go over everything again, anyway, and they’ll discover the falsehood. As for us, we discard her statement and move forward.” He thrusts the helmet at me again.

I ignore it. Again. “You’ve turned into a pussy, Draven—a weak, cowardly asshole, who allowed a middle-aged woman’s crocodile tears to cloud your judgment.” I snort. “You’re such a disappointment. You’ve lost your edge.” I chose my words carefully, each one meant to rile him and draw a reaction.

I get one.

He wraps his large hand around the top of my arm and hauls me down a narrow alley to the side of Ms. Fowler’s house before he pushes me up against the wall, his big body crowding me. His fingers grip my neck, pressing a little tighter than feels comfortable.

“Don’t push me, Lola.” He bends his head so close to mine, I can smell coffee on his breath.

“Screw you.”

“You wish.”

My anger morphs from rage to a different kind of heat, a physical yearning for the man I shouldn’t want, but do. He sweeps his tongue over those full lips, drawing my eye. Hot fucking damn, he has terrific lips. An unwelcome image of him squeezing my throat like this while he drives into me over and over spins through my mind. The heat from his body warms my blood, sending a rush of pleasure straight to my core. I clench my inner muscles, drawing cold comfort from the pressure, but it isn’t enough. I need… him.

Here. Now.

I finally admit it. Eight years of denying he even existed, then two days back in my life, and bam! I’m slobbering like a starving woman at an all-you-can-eat buffet.

My tongue darts out to dampen my lips, and I shift my posture, my legs parting in silent invitation.

Touch me.

“You’re giving away the prize, Lola,” he murmurs, the tip of his tongue tracing my ear lobe, with that big hand of his still clamped around my throat. “I know what you need. You’re desperate for me to stick my big, fat dick in your pussy and fuck you raw. To suck on your clit until you come so hard you pass the fuck out. And then, when you think you can’t take any more, you want me to flip you over and fuck you in the ass. That’s what you want isn’t it, little Lola? You act tough, but what you really need is to be in control in life, then be controlled in the bedroom. Just say the word. If you’ve got the chops, I’ll do you right here, right now.”

Jesus, I’m soaked from his words alone. What kind of a fucked-up situation is this? How can I be turned on when my sister is suffering incomprehensible horrors? How can such crude language send me into raptures of pleasure? I do want him, but not like this. Not with him having the upper hand.

Needing to reassert myself, I slam the heel of my hand into his shoulder. He squeezes my throat harder, and I grip his forearm, digging my nails into his flesh. “Get the fuck off of me,” I wheeze.

He drops his hand and steps back, a smirk tugging at his full lips.

“You’re a bastard, Draven,” I rasp, my throat aching from his grip. I send a wild kick at his shin, but he easily shifts out of the way. “I hate you.”

He sneers. “Yeah, but you also fucking want me.”

Faced with the awful truth, I storm off in the opposite direction. There isn’t a chance I’ll ride back home with him. I need space and time to come to terms with my powerful attraction to a man I’ve always thought I despised. An attraction I’ve suppressed for so many years, and ignored because I never expected to see the bastard ever again. It had been a mistake to go to him for help. Not for Kiera—Draven is my sister’s best hope—but for me. He’ll never find it within himself to truly forgive me for what I did, and by crawling to him, begging for his help, I’ve opened the door for him to torture me and seek his own version of retribution.

If I dared to hope for one second that Draven would follow me and try to persuade me to return home with him, I’m sadly mistaken. Shortly after my stomp down the road begins, his bike roars past me, disappearing into the distance within seconds.

I fist my hair and kick a stone against a wall. Goddammit all to hell. Every single time I think we might be making progress, something happens to derail the peace talks. On this occasion, that something happened to be me.

I slide my phone from my pocket and order a ride. The app allocates a driver in seconds, arranging a pick-up within five minutes. Thank God for technology. When I go to put my phone away, though, it rings. I glance at the screen and groan.

Here we go.

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