Chapter 15
fifteen
Ghost shoved his chair back and stood, making everyone in the bakery glance in their direction.
“Truck. Now.”
He grabbed her hand, tossed some bills on the table, and towed her out the door, past the counter and Nessie’s open-mouthed stare, straight into the rain.
He walked fast, like he couldn’t afford to think twice or he’d change his mind. When they reached his truck, he yanked the passenger door open and propelled her inside before circling to the driver’s seat.
The silence in the cab was a live wire, humming.
He gripped the steering wheel so hard it creaked in protest, and his knuckles bleached white. “Put the hoodie on, Fury.” His voice was low, rough-edged. “Or I’ll do it for you.”
She let out a huff that was equal parts incredulity and offense. “You dragged me out here just to dress me?”
Ghost twisted to face her, eyes gone flat and hungry. “I dragged you out here to stop myself from fucking you in the middle of Nessie’s bakery.”
Then he cupped her jaw hard enough to make her breath stutter and kissed her like it was the only way to keep the world from splitting in two.
She gave as good as she got. Dug her hands into his shirt, dragged him closer, kissed him back until her lips went numb.
He tasted like coffee, and when her tongue brushed his bottom lip, he groaned—a sound so raw she swore she felt it in her chest. Hell, lower than that. Her hips jerked up off the seat, needing friction, something, anything.
Ghost bit down on her lower lip, then licked the sting away. She gasped, head dropping back against the seat, and he took that for what it was—a green light. His hands were everywhere, greedy and unrepentant, dragging her across the console so she straddled his lap.
She hit the horn with her knee. It blared. She didn’t care.
His mouth was on hers, hot and bruising, hands locked around her hips like he expected her to tap out and run if he let up for even a second. She braced herself with both hands on his shoulders and bit his lower lip, hard enough to taste blood, just to see if he’d flinch.
He didn’t.
He growled low in his throat, yanked her closer, and shoved his thigh up between her legs. The pressure made every muscle in her body clench. Her hands slid under his shirt, palms skating over scars and hard muscle, nails raking down his back. He arched into her, his breath coming ragged.
She loved that sound. Loved that it was her making him come undone.
He tore his mouth away and buried his face in her neck. “You shouldn’t be doing this.”
“Why not?” She wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing closer, knees bracketing his hips. He was hard under her, cock straining against his jeans, and the knowledge that she’d done that—that she’d cracked the unbreakable Ghost—made her feel savage and alive.
“I’m not a good man. I’m fucking greedy and selfish and cruel, and you should run away because I want you.” His voice shredded the space between them. “I want every fucking piece of you. I want to ruin you for anyone else. I want to keep you so close nobody even thinks about touching you.”
She laughed and rocked down on his lap, grinding hard enough that he hissed. “That’s a lot of wanting for a guy who can barely admit he likes me.”
His grip tightened. “I don’t like you. I want you. There’s a difference.”
“Yeah?” She bit his jaw, teeth scraping just to see if he’d flinch. He didn’t. “Could’ve fooled me.”
He yanked her in, pinning her chest to his as his mouth slammed into hers. This time, the kiss was rough, all edge, no give.
Rain hammered on the windshield, fogging the glass, turning the world outside to nothing. Just the two of them, wrapped up in heat and violence and the impossible need to crawl inside each other’s skin.
She fisted her hands in his shirt. “You want me, take me.”
He shoved her back just enough to look at her. “You really want to do this? Right here?”
She could see it in his eyes—the leash of his control was down to threads. She’d be lying if she said it didn’t scare her a little. “I want you everywhere, Owen. Don’t care if it’s the truck, or back at my place, or in the middle of the bakery. Just do it.”
He let out a sound that was pure violence, then gripped her ass and rocked her against him. She was wet, throbbing, so far gone she would’ve begged if he’d asked for it.
His hand slid down her back, squeezing her ass, and he ground up against her, earning a gasp she couldn’t swallow. He licked up the side of her neck, then hooked a hand in her hair and tugged her head back to expose her throat. “I’m not gentle.”
“Did I ask for gentle?”
His eyes blazed. All the restraint, all the careful distance, gone. He reached between her legs and stroked her through her jeans, hard and slow, until she was panting. “You want it like this, Fury? Want me to fuck you mean?”
Yes. God, yes.
But the words were lost somewhere in her throat, so all she could do was nod.
He popped the button on her jeans and shoved his hand inside. She was soaked. He found her clit and pressed, thumb relentless, while his mouth ate at hers. She tried to grind down, but he just pinned her hips and kept up the slow torture.
She wanted to hit him. Or kiss him harder. Maybe both.
“Owen, God, just—” The words snapped off, replaced by a sound she’d have been embarrassed to make if she’d had any pride left. But he’d stripped that away already, hadn’t he?
He caught her mouth, swallowed her next curse, and shoved his fingers deeper. She tried to grind against his hand, but he just laughed—low, dark, a sound that vibrated straight through her—and withdrew his hand. “You want it that bad, Fury?”
“Fuck you,” she gasped, but her hips told a different story, chasing his touch.
“Not yet. You come first.”
She grabbed at his wrist, desperate, half a second from begging. His thumb flicked her clit, hard, then lighter, back and forth until she was shaking. She bit his jaw, didn’t care if she left a mark. Maybe she wanted to.
He kept her there, teetering on the edge, for what might have been forever if someone hadn’t rapped on the driver’s side window.
Ghost went perfectly, murderously still.
Naomi spun halfway off his lap, heart throttling in her throat, jeans tangled around her hips, and knuckles white on Ghost’s shoulder. His hand never left her waistband. If anything, he squeezed harder.
Outside, in the sheets of rain, a man stood in a black cowboy hat, scowling at them.
Boone Callahan.
She twisted, trying to right herself. Her jeans were unbuttoned, her shirt half untucked, and her hair was probably a disaster. Awesome.
Ghost’s hand never left her waist.
Outside the glass, Boone didn’t move. Just stood there in the rain, face unreadable, water running off his hat brim in slow, steady lines. There was no way he hadn’t seen everything.
Naomi looked at Ghost, hoping he’d have a plan. He just stared back at Boone, the angles of his face dead calm except for the tic in his jaw.
Neither man blinked.
Another heartbeat of silence, then Boone stepped back and smacked the top of the cab twice. Not hard, but not gentle, either. And then he walked away, boots splashing through the puddles, like he’d decided he was done policing whatever mess they’d made.
The spell—the wild, desperate heat of the last five minutes—broke like a glass shattering.
Ghost swore under his breath and finally released her. She crawled over into the passenger seat and straightened her clothes.
She didn’t look at him. Not at first. She buttoned her jeans, yanked the hem of her shirt straight, and forced her hair back into something that sort of resembled a braid. Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking. She’d been through shootouts with less adrenaline than that kiss.
It was embarrassing, how close she’d come to falling apart on top of him. Boone Callahan’s stone-cold glare didn’t help, either. She could still feel the imprint of his scowl burned into her skin.
Ghost didn’t move. He sat there staring straight ahead, jaw locked, hands still clenched around the steering wheel. The rain hammered down and blurred out the world beyond the windshield. You could’ve shot a cannon through the cab, and neither of them would’ve flinched.
She snuck a glance at him. His eyes were flat, unreadable. It should’ve pissed her off, the way he clammed up after manhandling her like that, but all she felt was the echo of his hands on her body, the phantom press of his mouth. Her lips tingled, swollen and raw.
“Are you in trouble?” she asked, voice pitched as flat as his.
“For skipping morning chores to finger fuck you in a ranch truck on Main Street?” His laugh held no humor. “Yeah, I’m in trouble.”
“You want to talk about it?”
He didn’t even glance her way. “No.”
She rolled her eyes. “Shocker.”
He nodded toward Craig Foster’s office. “Light’s on.
Someone’s there.” And like that, he was no longer Owen, but Ghost again.
Strange how she was starting to separate the two halves of him in her mind.
Owen was the reckless, hungry part that made her feel wanted down to the marrow.
Ghost was the wall she kept slamming into any time she tried to ask for more.
She was still trying to find her own center of gravity when Ghost checked the rearview, jaw set.
If he was rattled by nearly derailing her sanity in broad daylight, or by Boone’s judgment, it didn’t show.
He pointed his chin at Foster’s glass-fronted office.
“C’mon. We’re not gonna get a second shot.
I want you behind me at all times, stay alert for anything off. ”
She snorted but reached for the hoodie he’d given her, yanking it over her head.
It smelled like him. Rain, cedar, the whisper of cigar smoke.
Like she was wrapping herself in his shadow, as if that would keep her safe from the rest of the world.
She caught her reflection in the side mirror.
Her face was flushed, mouth swollen. She looked like she’d survived a natural disaster and wanted to go another round.
Ghost didn’t wait for her to compose herself. He was already out of the truck, striding across the street.