Page 78 of Break the Ice
Marisse emerges through the double doors that lead into the bedroom portion of the suite. She wears defiance on her face and my Wolves jersey tied at the navel.
The word sexy doesn’t do her justice. She’s surpassed regular sexy and reached a whole new level, where I take one look at her and blood rushes my dick.
Marisse March in my fucking jersey.
She must spy the hunger on my face, because she smirks. “What do you think?”
“I think I’m going to fuck you with that jersey on and nothing else.”
“I’m going to take that to mean you like what you see.”
I reel her toward me ‘til she’s so close, my lips are near her ear and her soft curls graze my face. “Let me clue you in on something—you wearing my jersey means you’re my fucking girl.”
Her breath stills. I nip at her ear and feel the tension in her delicious body.
“It means you’re mine to fuck. Mine to parade around in front of everybody. Damn sure mine to punish. As you found out last night. Tell me, Sugar, you ready for round four?”
Marisse March looks like somebody just slapped her across the face. Tinges of red have migrated across her honey-colored skin and given her a flushed effect. Her expression’s dazed and she meets my eyes as if her imagination’s running wild.
I know that look on a woman when I see it—when desire unexpectedly takes control and she’s overcome by it.
“And if I don’t agree?” she finally chokes out.
My fingers brush along the arc of Marisse’s throat and then I tug her close like I’m about to kiss her. “Behave yourself, Sugar,” I warn against her lips. “We can play as nice or as nasty as you want to play.”
We head out from the Onyx and hop into my Corvette. I gun it from the moment our butts touch the seats and I’ve revved the engine.
Seattle in early November is gray, mild, and wet. But we’ve lucked out on the only morning this week where there’s been some sunshine. As I hit the freeway, we catch the muted rays of the morning sun as it lights up the sky.
We’re riding with the top down and the autumn wind playing offense.
Marisse tries to hold down her big curls only to give up with a helpless laugh. Her curls whip above her like flickering flames in the sky—a beautiful sight when I glance over and she smiles at me.
Suddenly, it’s like we weren’t engaged in a battle of wills only a few hours ago.
Like Marisse wasn’t doing her damnedest to sabotage me, and I wasn’t doing the same to her. We’ve reached a point in this fucked-up arrangement where it’s almost… expected.
That neither of us are being straight with each other. That both of us have ulterior motives. Every move we make has become a calculated part of the game.
I swing into a drive-thru for some grease-spot fast-food joint. We order bacon and egg sandwiches, some OJ, and a big thing of seasoned potato wedges that come in a white paper bag. We park somewhere out in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by the woodsy green that the state’s known for.
I slide up on top of the rear seats and pat the spot next to me. “Don’t leave me hanging, Sugar.”
She almost rolls her eyes. Instead she carefully crawls over the seats and settles beside me with her meal neatly in her lap. “You eat in your Corvette?”
“All the time. If I fuck it up too bad, I can just have it professionally cleaned like new.”
“You like classic cars?”
“It’s a family thing. My dad’s collected them for decades. Then when I got old enough, I started my own collection. Colt has one too.”
“Impressive.”
I laugh. “Some think so.”
“Plenty of groupies, I’m sure.”
“But not you,” I say. “Tell me, what would impress you?”
