Page 19 of King
“Pleases, you? Are you fucking insane?”
Probably.
I should answer, but I ignore her question. We’ll get to that eventually. “You have every damn motherfucker here salivating. You stick your beautiful ass in the air and expect me to ignore every man staring at you like they want to fuck you into oblivion?”
She looks over her shoulder towards the house and of course, we have an audience.
“I was just working out,” she says, looking at me over her shoulder with those beautiful doe eyes. “I wasn’t thinking about anybody watching me, Dylan.”
I dig my fingers into the flesh of her hips, causing her to fidget.
“You must be fucking delusional if you don’t think any red-blooded man would not stare at your gorgeous ass stuck high in the air, in these tiny ass white shorts, Alana.”
I turn our bodies towards the rear of the property, my body shielding hers from prying eyes. They’ve seen enough. I lean in, inhaling her citrusy scent mixed with sweat, my lips mere inches from her slick skin. I resist the urge to run my tongue up the column of her neck just to have one taste.
“In my office in ten minutes.”
She tries to face me, but I force her body to remain in the position I want.
“Don’t. Fucking. Move.”
“King.”
“Dylan,” I say, reminding her.
“Dylan,” she huffs, trying to face me again but I tighten my grip, keeping her body facing away from me. “I’m not going to your office like I’m some fucking child. I didn’t do shit wrong.”
She didn’t do anything wrong, but it still pisses me off every man in this place is staring at her like she’s theirs. And she isn’t.
She’s not yours either.
“Ten minutes, Alana,” I growl, ignoring the voice inside my head. She isn’t mine but I don’t give a damn. “Don’t make me come looking for you.”
I step away from her.
“Asshole!” she shouts.
I am an asshole, but I ignore her and make my way back inside the clubhouse, without looking back even though the heat of her glare is boring into the back of my head, hotter than the sun.
She’s angry and she deserves to be, but I’m so pissed and horny that it’s clouding my judgment to where I don’t give a fuck about her anger.
“Fucking show’s over!” I push through the crowd again still hovering around. “Find something to fucking do or get the fuck out!”
The disgruntled groans, curses, and mumbles go around the room, but they got their free show, and now it’s over. I make it to my office without punching anyone in the face, which is a damn miracle at this point with the amount of jealous rage pumping through my veins. I open the door, slam it shut behind me, and I take a deep breath as I walk to my desk, then drop in my chair.
“She’s driving me fucking insane.”
I grab the glass, and the bottle of scotch I keep in the drawer. It’s a forty-year-old scotch, one I don’t drink often, but I need something that tastes good, and will calm me down. I pour a generous amount, probably more than I should, then down it in one shot ignoring the piercing burn coating my throat and stomach.
“What the fuck!”
I slam the glass on top of the desk, then roughly run my hand through my hair. I shake my head, trying to remove the images of her ass in the air, me standing behind her, and the way the brothers couldn’t take their eyes off her. The way I couldn’t take my eyes off her.
The image of me slamming into her over and over again will definitely play into my fantasies long after she’s gone. At this moment, I don’t know whether to be pissed at my brothers, her, or my damn self for my reaction and for not having more self-control around her.
“What the hell are you thinking, King?” I ask myself.
Obviously, I’m not thinking with my head, or at least not the right head.
