Dirty For Me (Motor City Royals) (10 page)

After a while, he’d gotten sick of arguing with himself. Tonight’s fight had been just what he’d needed to get out of his head and, when it was over, the adrenaline pumping hard in his veins, he’d picked up his phone and texted her.

The post-fight buzz was still there by the time he’d gotten to the theater and now all he could think about was whether he could wait till they’d gotten back to her apartment or whether they should find a handy alleyway like they had the last time around.

But no, he could hold out. He wasn’t that desperate. And besides, he’d dirtied her up in his neck of the woods; it was time to dirty her up in hers.

Zee ignored that thought, his hands tight on the steering wheel of the Trans Am. Her scent was filling the car, making it difficult to concentrate on driving let alone anything else.

She sat beside him, her fingers moving on the white purse she held in her lap, the silence between them full of tension and heat.

It lasted all the way to her apartment, but he made no attempt to break it. Talking wasn’t what they were meeting for.

The tension had got to extreme levels by the time they arrived at her building, a humming, crackling anticipation that made him even more hungry and restless than he was already.

Riding the elevator up to her floor, he could barely keep his hands to himself, pushing them deep into his pockets instead. This was a lesson in control if anything was, and fuck it, he was nothing if not controlled. One little rich girl in a sexy white dress wasn’t going to get the better of him.

Zee nearly growled at the thought as he followed her down the hallway to her door, conscious of the harsh sound his boots made on the floor as he came into the apartment behind her.

Then he stopped as the door shut and looked around.

Christ, this place. Exposed, whitewashed brick and dark wooden floorboards. Comfortable pale gray couch and armchairs. Dark wood bookcases full of intellectual, important-looking books and delicate knickknacks. A fucking interior decorator’s wet dream.

He had a sudden vision of himself in his oil-stained overalls sitting down on that pristine couch and kicking his boots up on the white coffee table, getting grease everywhere, dirtying up the place. Breaking shit . . .

He didn’t know why that thought made him feel a savage kind of pleasure, but it did.

Tamara had moved through the open-plan space to where a wooden breakfast bar separated the lounge area from the kitchen. She put her purse down on it and went around and into the kitchen, going over to the fridge and taking out a bottle of wine. Then she got a couple of glasses from a high shelf and put them on the breakfast bar before pouring some wine in each one.

Wine? Jesus, who did she think he was?

He walked over to the breakfast bar and came around it to where she stood, took the bottle out of her hands, and turned her so her back was to the wooden counter. Then he put his hands down on the surface of it on either side of her hips, looking down into her dark eyes.

She was so warm, her body inches from his, and he wanted to rip that fucking dress off her, have her wearing nothing but those sexy red heels. “What?” he said. “You think I’m here for a drink and a chat?”

Her mouth curved and she leaned back, reaching out for one of the glasses and raising it, taking a sip. “Why not? Nothing wrong with a little anticipation, right?” There was a glint in her eye, something flirty and sexy and downright hot.

She was teasing him. Slowly, he smiled back, his hunter’s instinct rising. “Take your fucking dress off, pretty girl. I’m done with anticipation.”

Tamara raised a
wait
finger, took another sip of her wine, then said, “So you had a fight tonight? Before coming here?”

“Yeah.”

“Was it a prizefight or something?”

“No. They’re nothing. Just some underground matches where we beat the shit out of each other.”

“Uh-huh.” She tipped her head back and drained the rest of her wine, her eyes gleaming over the rim of the glass. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do you do it?”

He shifted, leaning on his hands, easing his body closer, not in the mood to be discussing his fights. “What do you do?”

“I’m an intern in an investment company.”

Of course she would be. Girl like her had success written all over her. “So why do you do it?”

She smiled at his conscious imitation. “It’s not the same thing.”

“No, but it’s the same question.”

“You don’t want to talk about yourself?”

“Like I said, that’s not what I came here for.”

“I thought all guys wanted to talk about themselves.”

“You’ve been seeing the wrong kind of guys.” Gently he removed the wineglass from her hands and put it down on the breakfast bar. “Now. Take your fucking dress off before I rip it.”

Something leapt in her gaze, a dark flame, and she laughed. “Show me some moves.”

“What?”

Her hands came up, her palms flat on his chest. “Some of your fighting moves.”

That wasn’t what he’d come for either. Yet that glittering flame was still in her eyes and he wanted to see what it meant. “Why?”

“Because I’m curious.” Her hands slid up over his chest, stroking. “Because I watched you at the gym that night and I thought . . .” She stopped, color rising to her cheeks. “I thought you were beautiful.”

He’d been hot and sexy to women before. But none of them had ever called him beautiful. “I’m just a mechanic who beats the shit out of people at night. Nothing beautiful about that.”

“You don’t only do that.” Her gaze had dropped to his chest, her hands stroking, petting him like a cat. “You teach people how to defend themselves too. Is that part of your fight thing?”

A thread of unease wound through him at the question, though he couldn’t have said why. Perhaps it was her touch, which was gentle. And he wasn’t here for gentle. “Look, you wanna get naked? So, let’s get naked. Stop wasting time.”

She looked up at him and he thought he saw a flash of hurt in her eyes.

Fuck. He hadn’t meant to hurt her yet there had to be a line drawn somewhere. A reminder of what was happening between them.

Tamara’s gaze dropped again, her hands stopping their stroking motion, and he pretended he was happy she did and not disappointed instead.

“Good point,” she said after a moment. “Though I meant what I said. I want to see some of those moves. So . . .” She shoved hard against him all of a sudden and because he wasn’t expecting it, he stumbled back a few steps. “You want to take my dress off, you fucking take it off yourself.” She grinned, the look in her eyes all challenge. “That is, if you can.”

The competitor in him, still buzzing from the fight, roared in approval at the challenge, and he found his hands curling into fists in the pockets of his jeans.

Though Christ, did she really know what she was letting herself in for, goading him like this?

“I’m not one of your pretty little rich boys, Tamara,” he said flatly. “And I’m not one of your polite city guys, in a fancy suit, respecting the fuck out of you and your choices. I’m a bad man. A man you shouldn’t mess with.”

But she didn’t look away. “Perhaps that’s what I want. Perhaps messing with you is exactly what I want.”

“Okay then.” Well, he couldn’t say he hadn’t warned her. Sliding his hands out of his pockets, he deliberately relaxed his muscles, getting loose and ready. “You’ve got one second.”

She was around the side of the breakfast bar and out into the lounge as if she had a rocket under her, moving pretty fast on those sexy shoes of hers.

But he was faster.

She’d barely reached the couch by the time he caught her, easily taking one arm and twisting it up and behind her back, while reaching around with the other and locking his fingers around her throat. Then he pulled her up against his body.

She cursed, struggled a moment, then went completely still.

She felt good, all those soft, hot curves pressed up against him. Made him want to hold her like that all day, then maybe bend her over the couch and fuck her from behind.

He lowered his head, so his mouth was near her ear. “That was too easy.”

“And yet my dress is still on.” Her voice was husky, an undercurrent of heat moving through it.

“I haven’t finished yet.” He could feel her pulse racing beneath his palm, the softness of her skin tantalizing against his fingertips. Exertion had released a soft, musky scent, sweat and the sweetness of her expensive perfume and it hit him like a pure aphrodisiac. He wanted to tilt her head, expose her neck, sink his teeth into that sensitive spot between shoulder and neck.

But it would be all over if that happened and he was now officially curious.

He wanted to see what more she could do.

Abruptly he let her go and stepped back.

She turned and looked at him, one eyebrow raised in inquiry.

“One more chance,” he said. “Go.”

She didn’t hesitate, heading past the couch to the coffee table, obviously trying to put it between them.

He let her feel like she had the upper hand for a second, making a couple of feints around one side of the table, while she started in the opposite direction.

She’d gone pink, her blond hair coming down from the elegant bun it had been in when he’d picked her up. And she was grinning, caught in the same adrenaline high he was.

God, she was gorgeous, and he was enjoying this game she’d started way too much. It had been a long time since a woman had teased him like this—usually they were way too intimidated.

But then Tamara gave a breathless laugh and just like that, his patience with the game snapped.

He leapt over the coffee table, making her give a shriek, before taking her down onto her back, onto the fluffy deep blue rug that covered the floorboards, pinning her hands on either side of her head and keeping her down with the weight of his body on hers.

She struggled, her hips lifting like she could buck him off, her breath coming in short, hard pants. At first he thought it was part of the flirtation game, so all he did was settle down more fully onto her, using his weight to keep her still.

Then her gaze met his and he saw something wild in her eyes, and he realized it wasn’t a game anymore. He knew fear, he saw it in the ring and in the women who came to him to learn how to defend themselves. In the faces of his father’s enemies all those years ago. In the cold twist of his gut when his father had told him he wouldn’t be seeing Madison anymore.

And now it was in Tamara’s eyes too.

She was trembling.

“Hey,” he said, keeping his voice sharp to cut through her fear. “What’s wrong?”

She blinked a couple of times, as if she’d been somewhere else, then her gaze focused on him, the tension in her body dissipating. “Nothing.”

“Yeah, there is. Did I scare you?”

Her lashes swept down all of a sudden, veiling her gaze. “No.”

“Bullshit. I’m a mean son of a bitch, but this was a game and scaring you wasn’t the point of it.”

She was silent a moment. “It’s not you,” she said eventually.

“Then what?”

She let out a small breath. “I thought I’d gotten over it. Sorry.”

“Gotten over what?” He couldn’t think why he wanted to know, because that wasn’t the point of this either. Yet he did. For some reason it mattered.

Her lashes came up, her eyes dark and wary. “Someone I knew used to . . . kind of hold me down. He never hurt me, just . . .” She stopped, her throat moving. “He was sick. Mentally unwell. It wasn’t anything major.”

But he could see that it was and it roused all his latent protective instincts. He suddenly wanted to know who and why and where, a surge of hot possessiveness moving through him.

But he ignored the thought. He didn’t care whether he’d screwed her or not, something had hurt her and he wanted to fix it. “Sounds pretty major to me.”

“It’s not, okay?” Her expression had hardened, like a door had shut behind her eyes. “It was years ago and I’m over it. So . . .” Her hips shifted under his, a sensual undulation that had his cock going from semihard to hard in seconds flat.

Yet a small, insistent thread of curiosity wound through him that he found impossible to ignore.

“How many years ago?” He settled himself more firmly between her thighs, the hard ridge of his zipper pressing against the soft heat of her, and he felt her shiver.

“What? I don’t know. Eight, I think.” A crease appeared between her brows. “I thought you didn’t want to chat?”

Fuck, he didn’t. He really didn’t. So why did he want to know what had put that fear in her eyes? They weren’t here to trade their life stories, and God knew he’d sworn off vulnerable women for life. Yet, he couldn’t seem to leave it alone.

He shifted, flexing his hips slightly so the ridge of his zipper hit the sweet spot between her legs. She took a sharp breath, the wariness draining from her eyes and replaced by a burgeoning heat.

Better. Yeah, that was better.

So he did it again, rocking gently against her, feeling the remaining tension seep out of her muscles. She gave a soft, shaky sigh, her thighs opening wider to give him room and that was good too. In fact that was exactly what he wanted.

He let one of her wrists go and reached down between them, pulling the white silk of her dress up around her waist so the only thing separating the rough denim of his jeans from her pussy were the white lace panties she wore. Then he flexed his hips again, harder this time. Grinding against her clit and watching as the color bloomed under her skin.