Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Tate
Cat teases me about Chloe and I laugh, but she’s hitting too close to the mark.
My plate of pasta is half finished and I have no intentions of eating another bite.
My gut is no longer interested in food—all my body’s attention and blood flow has turned to anticipating a showdown with one gorgeous piece of forbidden fruit.
Chloe Smith. We need to confront our attraction once and for all.
“Maybe I’ll turn the tables,” I say. “Get her to confess what her angle is, why she’s dogging me.”
“I think it’s obvious,” Cat says.
Hunter wipes his mouth, nodding. “She’s into you, man.”
“No shit. Doesn’t mean she doesn’t have an agenda.” Sipping my beer, I shift in my seat, my back screaming, reminding me of her agenda. But it’s only a fucking sore back, a weak angle at best. Fontanna is playing with a sore back—doesn’t scream viral headline to me. There has to be more than that.
“Her agenda is screwing your brains out.” Gabriel grins. “I’d let her have her way if I were you. She’s a quality—”
“Sports reporter,” I finish. “She’s a fucking sports reporter, a shark.” I shake my head.
“Can’t talk to Tate on this subject,” Hunter says. “She’s media. He has his mind made up.”
“We’ll see,” Cat says from behind a glass of wine, but it doesn’t hide her mischief-maker smile and that gives me pause.
“So are you going to have a drink with her?” Cat asks.
I shrug as if I’m not counting the minutes until I can excuse myself without being rude. The thing is, in spite of my bluster to the guys, in spite of my caution and extreme distrust of all media, I can’t pretend away the attraction.
And I can’t ignore the fact that she donated ten fucking grand to my charity—and that it was to make up for the media debacle at my uncle’s graveside.
The woman has heart. But what the fuck does that mean in the grand scheme of things?
Does it mean I can trust her? Probably not.
Hell no. Taking a last sip of my beer, I shove my chair back from the table and stand.
“Wish me luck.”
Walking away to jeers and claps and taunts, I refrain from giving them the finger because I deserve this.
I’m fucking schizophrenic when it comes to Smitty.
My mind tells me one thing and my dick has a whole other idea.
The scary part is that now she’s touched my heart, reached out and grabbed it with that damn donation.
But that’s not all, if I’m honest. There’s also the vulnerability she shows every time she talks about her dad—which is often.
She loved the man and that speaks to me, whether I want it to or not.
Before I enter the bar, I stop. My fucking heart is racing and I need to calm down. This isn’t a big win on the line and it’s a far cry from high stakes. So what if she’s gone? Checking my phone, I see it’s been less than an hour. She’ll be here.
Turning the corner, I hear her laugh before I see her at the crowded bar.
As I approach I take her in, her hair disheveled, that curl falling on her forehead making her look innocent and sexy all at once and my balls tighten.
I can feel the blood start to leave my brain and rush to Team Cock and I tense.
Then she turns and lays those deep blue-violet eyes on me, framed by dark lashes, her lips red and plump and her smile softened by a few drinks. Her edge is gone and my dick is hard.
“Fontanna. You’re back.” She smiles and it looks genuine.
She buys me a drink I have no intention of drinking, but I don’t bother bursting her bubble. Not yet anyway.
“How’d you get here, Chloe?” I stand between her and her sidekick, Duff, noting that there’s no camera in sight. He has a half glass of beer in front of him and looks solid.
“She’s with me,” he says. “I’ll see that she gets home.”
“Aw, that’s so sweet of you, Duff.” She doesn’t argue and I’m almost surprised, but she’s not stupid or self-destructive—only bold and daring and just a hair this side of real trouble. A tight walk along an edge that can wiggle either way.
I nod at Duff. “Let’s get a table, so we can talk, Chloe.” I take her hand and she doesn’t resist, so I lead her up the stairs to a semiprivate balcony bar even though it’s probably closed for business. No one stops me because Louie knows me and I’m a loyal customer who tips well.
“Wow, a secret private hangout,” she says when we get to the top of the stairs to the dimly lit empty room filled with low tables and club chairs.
I take a seat and so does she, but not in the chair next to me.
She sits in my lap and bam. It’s like alarms whooping and red lights flashing in my brain alerting my cock to full-on action.
“You don’t mind if I sit with you, do you, Fontanna?”
“Not if you don’t mind sitting on my hard cock.” No sense in pulling punches when the obvious is so obvious. She laughs.
“I like you.” She wraps her arms around my neck. Holy shit. This is what I took her up here for, isn’t it? To test her, to taste her, to see how explosive the sparks are.
To get her out of my system.
“I think you like me,” she says, her red nail drawing a line down my jaw and across my lips. I don’t bother confirming or denying. Instead I slip my hand up her back and thread my fingers through her soft curls and move her face toward mine until our lips are a breath apart.
With my pulse thundering crazily, insanely, considering I’m a full-grown man, well past the adolescent stage where anticipating a kiss should have me in such a state, I touch my mouth to hers.
A soft brush, a caress of skin, moist and hot, and our lips meet with that perfect amount of pressure to make me sizzle, to make my cock jump and beg.
When I feel the vibration run through her, her tense, unshed passion communicates to me as she presses her lips to mine, parts them to allow a heady taste of her essence. And then all bets are off.
The answer is loud and clear how real this physical attraction is between us, the lust alive and rearing, making my cock strain, my pants tight.
Our tongues mingle, our mouths ravenous, her hands on me, touching everywhere she can.
I take my fill of her, drink in her beauty, her vibrancy, her sensuality, and let it all run through me and feed my raging blood.
Her ragged breathing mingles with mine and I separate our mouths, still close, and hold her face in my hands to look into those mesmerizing eyes.
I want to say something, but my speech center isn’t working, my emotions are in the red zone, and my brain shut down while my cock is full of purpose.
My chest heaves as I grasp for some control, something to hold onto that isn’t her, that isn’t like dynamite in my hands.
Because deep down somewhere my sense of self-preservation is still at work.
“You’re a dangerous woman,” I breathe. She vibrates in my arms with the kind of sensuality that speaks to me, matching something in me like a mirror.
A tremor runs through her as I nibble on her earlobe because it’s there and my body is following its own path.
She feels hot and restless, like she’s balancing on that edge of danger and safety and that’s exactly where she wants to be, where she lives. One hair this side of the line.
“Not so dangerous,” she says, her voice a heady whisper. “Maybe a little naughty.”
“Naughty?” I want to laugh, but tension grips the muscles of my gut too tight, has me twitching, my cock like granite except it’s throbbing with life and putting up a fight against my self-preservation. “Naughty is too tame a word for you.”
“Trouble?” She goes back to drawing a line along my jaw with that red-tipped finger.
Her face is flushed a pretty pink and that curl falls across her forehead, partly hiding one eye, making her look like the sexiest sex kitten I’ve seen since I used to paw through old Playboy magazines when I was a kid.
Enough innocence and substance mixed with the sensuality to make her far more than trouble.
“Trouble’s not enough, either,” I say, raspy and parched for more. “Playing with you feels more like playing with dynamite.”
She tips her head back and stops touching me, moving on my lap to get separation then grinding so that I clench my jaw tight to stifle a groan—pleasure or pain, I’m not quite sure.
“Funny,” she says, “because I feel like I’m playing for keeps.”
Frozen for one second, staring at those eyes, my heart nearly stops before it stampedes in my chest. She shuts her eyes, blushes pink, and pushes off my chest as she scrambles off my lap to a stand.
“I think it’s time for me to go home,” she says, sounding sober and more like the Smitty I know from behind the microphone.
I stand and reach for her, because my raging heart and blood and cock heard what they heard and won’t let common sense or reason stop them, stop me, from taking her back into my arms, from kissing her again.
Even as her lips soften against mine and I taste that dynamite, feel the connection seeping and clawing into me, grabbing inside my chest to find my heart, she pushes away.
“Enough fun and games for one night,” she says turning away again. “You don’t want to get blown up, do you?”
Before I can think what to do or say, knowing I shouldn’t argue—because she’s doing me a favor, isn’t she?—I hear a commotion downstairs at the front entrance below and a loud, long whistle.
“Yo, Fontanna? You upstairs? You coming with?” It’s Gabe. I drove over with him. Either I go with him now or I go with Chloe. But she turns to me with a smirk that says no way I’m going with her. The moment is lost.
“Your friends are calling, big boy. Time to go.” She walks past me and once again I get the feeling that this isn’t right, leaving her this way, so I call out to the guys to wait a minute and I catch up with her before she gets to the stairs. Because I want the moment back.
“Wait a minute, Chloe. You—”