Page 81 of Riding the Storm
Their eyes, as well as their phones, are trained on the two of us.
Shit.
We stand there, staring at each other. His hands flex at his sides like he’s fighting the urge to do exactly what he threatened.
“Get in the truck, Charli.”
I finally do as he asked. Sliding over quickly so he can get behind the wheel. I can feel the fury rolling off of him as he puts the truck in reverse and peels out of the parking lot.
It’s a twenty-minute drive from Okie’s to the hotel, but I make it in ten. I don’t say anything. The woman has me too wound up. Charli’s in the passenger seat, head resting against the window. The knot in my chest loosens as I watch her. The anger morphing into something else—jealousy, protectiveness, something I can’t quite name because I’ve never felt it before.
She keeps glancing over, like she’s trying to read me in the dark, but I won’t give her the satisfaction.
The parking lot is slammed, so I have to pull all the way to the back to find a spot. I cut the engine as she fumbles with her seat belt.
“I’m sorry.” The words are soft.
I sit there behind the wheel. My chest heaving as I let them wash over me.
She opens the door, but I catch her before she can climb out.
She turns to me. “Bryce—”
I don’t let her finish. “You were supposed to keep me out of trouble,” I tell her. The words come out harder than I expected, loaded. “Not get me into it.”
She starts to apologize again. “I—”
I cut her off, “You don’t let another man put his hat on your head. Especially not Porter fucking Lane,” I say, and I hear the ice in my voice. “If I ever see it again, I swear to God I’ll feed that hat to him and watch him choke on it.”
She gasps at my words, and I finally turn to face her.
“And another thing,” I say, “the next time you feel the urge to ride a bucking animal, all you have to do is climb on my lap and hold on.”
She’s on top of me in an instant. Her knees settling on either side of my hips.
She pressesher forehead to mine. Her breath is hot and hurried. I move my hands to the small of her back and feel the tension there, feel how she relaxes under my palms. Her fingers find the hair at my neck and pull lightly.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers against my lips.
My hands cup the back of her head, thumb brushing the shell of her ear, and she makes a sound that’s part relief and part surrender.
“I’m sorry,” she repeats.
“Me too.”
When our mouths meet, it’s not gentle; it’s a collision. Hard and needy.
The rest of the world drops away—the scene at Okie’s, the flashing phones, the stupid hat, and the stupid little boys fighting for her attention, all of it.
Her hand trails down my chest to the bulge in my jeans. She caresses me over the denim.
I break the kiss and look around. I can hear the faint sounds of music drifting from the casino’s music venue, but there’s no people in the parking area, and we’re hidden from sight, tucked in the shadows at the back of the lot.
I tug her shirt loose and bring it up over her head. Then I squeeze her breast through the lace of her bra.
She arches her back over the steering wheel.
And my hand skims lower, clutching the hem of her skirt and hiking it over her hips. I feed my hand inside her panties to find her soaked.
