Page 41 of The Love Bandits

I look at her in confusion.

“I have to pat you down before we get in the car,” she says. “I need to make sure you don’t have it.”

Heat washes through me as she prowls around the front of the car and stops in front of me.

“Hands up,” she says, her voice low and throaty.

“What if someone from the party sees us?”

“They’ll assume it’s some kind of kink,” she says carelessly, as if she doesn’t realize how much blood she’s sending to my dick. But she does. She absolutely does. It’s there in the glimmer of her eyes, like she enjoys tormenting me. And I’ll be damned if that doesn’t make her more interesting. “Jacket off.”

Eyes pinned to hers, I take it off and hand it to her.

She briskly examines it before slinging it over the hood of the car, and then I slowly lift my hands. “Have your way with me,Mistress.”

She rolls her eyes, but I don’t miss the way her fingers tremble slightly as they quickly sweep up and down my arms, spreading heat in their wake, and then glide over my chest. I’m not sure whether I’m imagining it, but it feels like they pause a couple of times over my pecs. Then they move around to my back, her body inches from mine, her heat seeping into me as hertouch brushes across my upper back before dipping into my belt line.

I’m looking into her eyes when she finds something, her eyes widening.

She pulls out the bottom of my collared shirt and then tugs at the strap of my money belt. When the strap doesn’t give, she runs her fingers around my waist, her bare fingers against my skin—a whisper of flesh against flesh that sears me—until they reach the clasp. She undoes the money belt, then pulls it out, eyes grazing over the tools inside.

“Disappointed?” I ask, lifting my brows, my heart beating faster than it was thirty seconds ago. It was the brush of her fingers—so soft but forceful. Thorough.

A huff escapes her. “Your mother should be.”

“My mother’s not exactly in a position to be disappointed by anyone.”

I didn’t mean to tell her something that could be used against me. I definitely don’t want to sound like Anthony—a grown-ass man complaining about his mommy. But I’m on edge. Nothing’s gone as it should have tonight, and I suspect that trend is not about to reverse itself.

She watches me, emotions dancing through her eyes—there, gone—as she opens the passenger door and throws the tool belt inside before closing it again.

“You know I can’t believe anything you say, right?” she asks finally, pausing.

“You believed me about my brother,” I point out.

She doesn’t respond. She just glances at me one more time, her honey brown eyes hiding more than they show, and then her hand pats lightly right the fuck over my half-hard dick before sliding in between my legs and then over my ass.

A hiss escapes me, but I don’t flinch from her touch—and I definitely don’t push her up against the car the way I’d like. I juststand there, a man made of stone, as she lowers to her knees in front of me. She looks like she’s about to take me out and suck, and even though I know she’s more likely to spray my dick with pepper spray than show it some love, it pulses harder as her hands dance quickly and efficiently down my legs.

She meets my gaze again—her stare challenging. I give back as good as I’m getting, neither looking away nor blinking.

“Take off your shoes,” she finally says, her voice hoarse.

“Do you know how painful it would be to carry a necklace like that in your shoe?”

“You sound like you have experience with that,” she says, accurately. “Shoes off.”

So I slip them off, one after another, and bear the indignity of this woman running her fingers up my arches, the sensation rippling through me.

Finally, she pronounces me clean of any contraband or stolen necklaces, and I’m allowed to slide my shoes back on, reclaim my jacket, and get into the car.

I almost immediately start drumming my fingers against the dash, needing the release for the adrenaline and lust pounding through my body. But I turn toward Elaine as she gets into the driver’s seat, her eyes settling on me.

What does she see when she looks at me? A liar. A thief. A man who pretended to be someone’s friend so I could steal his family’s prized possession. A man who gets hard-ons for a woman who doesn’t have the least bit of genuine interest in him. She doesn’t like what she sees, and I don’t blame her.

After a second, she asks, “Whoareyou?”

“Damned if I know.”

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