Chapter 5
“I’m not a hooker.” I punch his arm, and he chuckles, motioning to a black SUV as we exit the bar. It started snowing, but he seems unfazed, walking hand-in-hand with me in just a t-shirt, not even a shiver. He opens the car door for me, and call me surprised. The coat, the hand hold, the door …
“Old school,” I sass, sliding in—although, when men treat me like this, it makes me weak. As I watch him walk around the hood, my heart races as I shiver in my seat. This is a terrible idea. Well, terrible for feminism. But this man will fuck the shit out of me, that’s clear. We’ll have fun, then …
“Hey, you’re going to drive me back here after, yeah?” I ask. I want to confirm before buckling myself in.
“Who says I’m returning you?”
I roll my eyes. “Ha, ha … but seriously.”
“If you want to leave, I’ll bring you back.”
I believe him; still, I press, “You think this—”
“When I tell you to shut the fuck up back at my place,” he cuts me off, “are you going to listen, or do I need to muzzle you?”
Wet.
Why does it turn me on when guys talk to me like that? I wish I could be into something regular, something expected, but nope. I have to go back with some nameless man to catch a high.
“I think what you meant to say was gag.” He rubs his eyes, maybe regretting entertaining me this evening. “I thought you could handle me?”
“You’re a tough case.” The look he flashes me …
“We’re two peas in a fucked-up little pod.” I laugh, buckling myself in.
He chuckles, starting the car, resting his hand on my thigh. Staring down at it, I feel nervous again. What the fuck am I doing? I don’t know his name, he doesn’t know mine, and neither of us care.
“How far away is your place?”
“Close.”
“Like …?”
“Too short of a drive for road head.”
“I’m not going back to your place to suck your dick.” He cocks a brow, taking his eyes off the road to stare at me. I have nothing to lose, so I share what I want to happen. “I want you to throw me around and break my back …” I can’t hold back my innate sass. “If you can still do that.”
The growl that comes from him. It’s the most masculine sound I’ve ever heard, and his grip on my thigh tightens past the point of playful.
“You better not be all bark,” he says, low.
“Biting is your job.”
His deep chuckle—it’s so hot. It’s cocky and just … all man. “You’re pretty easy for being the scariest guy at the bar,” I say, looking down at his hand tattoo. I’m curious about it. Hand tats on a guy his age? That’s … I don’t need to know. I don’t need to know anything about him.
“Throwing stones, glass house.”
I giggle, enjoying his wit. But then, the name Joanna Kowalski flashes across his display. His wife? Girlfriend? This was a stupid idea. I raise my brow, curious if he will turn back now. He answers, and a little boy’s voice comes through the car’s Bluetooth, saying something in Polish.
He smiles, his tone softer, replying in the same language. Amused and curious, I stare at him, watching him speak.
“My grandson,” he says after ending the call. “I gave him some new toys earlier today. He wanted to tell me how much he likes them.”
“Cute.”
“He’s my second chance,” he says after a pause. “Not going to fuck him up like my boys.”
“If you want me to play therapist, I am going to charge by the hour.”
“You’re going to play nice, which I already know will be a lot of work for you.”
I laugh. We’re too comfortable with each other already. “Let me armchair therapize you.”
“This should be good.”
“You spent, like, a decent amount of time in jail and missed out on the formative years of your boys’ lives, and now they hate you.”
He scoffs. “I’ve never been to jail.”
“I got two out of three,” I say smugly, relieved about the part I got wrong. I don’t need to know why his kids hate him. This is one night. Then, I’m never seeing him again.
“One and a half out of three.”
I tilt my head, curious.
“I didn’t know about my first son until he was thirty.”
“So slutty.”
His hand moves up my thigh, sliding between my legs. Jeans. I wouldn’t have worn them if I’d intended on having a one-night stand.
“You play fair, Miss Running-From-Home-On-Christmas-Eve?” he asks, squeezing my inner thigh tight.
“Why not? Analyze away.”
“You have many characters … I bet the work version of you is nothing like the girl who goes to a bar in hopes of getting attention.”
“I didn’t go to the bar for attention.”
“Then why are you in my car?”
I pause for a second. “Because I don’t want to think.”