Free Screw Single by Tacie Graves Page B

my fingers itch to brush it away. He was wearing gray fatigues that matched his eyes and a worn cotton t-shirt that was so tight I could probably see his pulse through it. I could feel the instant that his gaze locked on me; it jolted like electricity through my veins hot and cold and searing all at the same time.
     
    “Need to talk to you outside, Pet,” he said, the soft lilt in his voice making my knees weak, and inclined his head to Bridget as he headed out the door . I didn’t even try to make my goodbyes. She wouldn’t hear them.
     
    He walked a little ahead of me and I watched his body as he moved, his rolling gait eating up distance without seeming rushed . I noticed the dimples that marked the ends of some muscles and the beginnings of others . There were deep impressions in the sides of his ass that even his fatigues couldn’t hide, and his gray web belt simply reinforced the narrowness of the waist it encircled.
     
    My mind, though, refused to simply allow me to fixate on the man in front of me . It insisted on overlaying images of Jack’s deeply defined forearms and incredibly long, jeans encased legs over Donovan’s more muscular body, and the combination quickly had my pulse racing and my head spinning as I tried to keep up with Donovan’s pace.
     
    When he stopped at his Jeep, he turned towards me, peering over the top of a pair of mirrored sunglasses. As he removed them, I could see his eyes pause as he noticed the pulse fluttering in my neck, and the flush spreading from my face to regions further south . Self-preservation in mind, I refused to acknowledge the glitter in his eyes and the almost tangible waves of desire clouding the air between us.
     
    “When’d you get back?” I asked, amazed that I managed to speak over the lump in my throat.
     
    “Yesterday,” Donovan replied, master of the one word sentence.
     
    “So… what’d you want to talk about?” I asked, still shooting for calm.
     
    “Jack,” he said, again employing the one word reply.
     
    “Good guy, great help, terrible flirt, anything else?” I answered, tiring of the power play.
     
    “Just this,” he said and in less time than it takes to describe he had grasped my wrist and pulled me to him . He pressed my back against the warm black body of his Jeep and pinned me there, staring into my eyes like a snake would hypnotize a bird. Slowly—painfully slowly—he lowered his lips to mine, never breaking eye contact . His lips were warm and soft and teasing, and I couldn’t stop a groan from escaping . As if he were waiting for that little encouragement, that tiny sign of weakness, he immediately deepened the kiss, licking and nipping at my lips. His mouth fit mine so perfectly that I groaned again . I grabbed his shirt—either to pull him closer or to hold myself up, I wasn’t sure—and he kissed me harder, one hand on the back of my head, tangled in my hair, and the other sliding up the side of my breast, fingers teasing my nipple as they passed . I was swamped with the sensations and clung to him like a life raft in a tidal wave.
     
    When we broke apart, I was gasping and I could feel my pulse in my swollen lips. Anyone looking at me would know that I’d been thoroughly kissed—my eyes were glazed and my cheeks flushed—but somehow I couldn’t bring myself to care.
     
    Donovan looked at me intently for long seconds and after nodding as if in response to a voice only he could hear, he pulled away and opened the Jeep door.
     
    “I’ll see you later, Pet,” was all he said, and he climbed in and was gone.
     
    I stood there for long moments not knowing whether to scream or stomp or cry, finally settling on stomping my boot covered feet in anger before heading to my own truck . I swung open the door, climbed in and slammed it with all the force I could muster, so frustrated that I could have bitten through nails.
     
    Every nerve in my body was wracked, my panties were soaking wet, my knees were shaking,