Sex On The Seats (Love After Midnight Book 4) by Elise Faber (most inspirational books .txt) 📗

Nope. Not gonna do it.

I lifted my chin. “First of all, I’m a woman, not a girl.”

Hazel eyes dipped down before returning to mine, a slow smile curving his mouth. That smile was . . .

Fucking hell.

I shifted on my barstool, thighs clenching together because . . . that smile was pure, unadulterated sex.

On the seats.

An image of him spreading my legs, of those broad shoulders pushing my thighs wide as he pressed those lush lips to my pussy made the alarm bells transform into hurricane sirens.

Because I was imagining having sex on the seats.

With a stranger.

With a stranger I wanted more than I wanted my careful distance.

Oh. Shit.

Chapter Two

Dominique

“What’s your name?” I asked quietly.

“Archer.”

I sniffed. “That’s a ridiculous name.”

He shrugged. “Maybe.” A nudge of the glass toward me. “You going to try it?”

“Is it drugged?”

He grinned. “You’ll never know till you try it,” he drawled.

Sighing, trying to stifle the desire drawing me to this stranger, I put the straw to my lips and sucked.

His eyes went hot.

I almost came on that seat.

And then the sweet and tart drink hit my tongue.

“You like it,” he said, voice husky.

I pushed the glass away. “No.”

“You do.”

“It’s too sweet,” I protested.

His hand covered mine. “Like you.”

I slipped my fingers free, leaned back in the seat. “And you’re out of your fucking mind.”

Those hazel eyes sparkled under the lights overhead, and fuck, every time I looked at them, I got lost in them. They were so changeable and intoxicating, unlike anything I’d ever laid eyes on . . . pun intended.

“Maybe it would be more truthful for me to say, I bet you’d taste sweet?”

More thigh-clenching.

More moisture gathering.

More uncomfortable shifting on my seat.

“What about you?” I asked, my voice husky with need. Not that I could do a damned thing about eliminating that rasp. I wanted him, and it had been a long time. Ages, even. I’d been too busy building my work, my life, my strength, my . . . power.

I hadn’t spared any brainpower to do anything but work.

But now my work didn’t require as much energy; the business ran on its own more often than not. So, aside from the occasional meeting like I’d needed to conduct tonight with Hayden, I had found myself with time of late.

And if there was something that I didn’t like having copious amounts of, it was free time.

Even before work had taken over my life the last few years, I had always been one of those people who never failed to have something going—a place to visit, something to do around my house. Hell, I’d even done my fair share of crafts. It would probably surprise the hell out of the people I let glimpse slivers of my life, but I could quilt, crochet, and cross-stitch with the best of them.

But my favorite thing was computers—hacking into systems that were designed to keep people like me out, finding the shit that bad guys wanted to keep hidden.

And then turning it over to my clients . . . or the appropriate authorities.

Either one.

Depending on what was found.

Depending on what I chose.

That was written into my ironclad NDA, my approved-by-multiple-lawyers contract.

“Do I taste sweet?” Archer replied, pulling me out of my head and back into the conversation that was prickling with sexual awareness, sending waves of tingling sensations over my nape, my stomach . . . lower. “Is that what you’re asking?”

I took a sip of the drink, enjoying the concoction despite myself. “A pretty boy like you? You’re saccharine.” I sniffed. “You’re sickly sweet.”

He plunked his elbows on the bar, leaned forward. “Is that so?”

My eyes dipped, catching on his hands. Big hands, a few scars crossing their backs, hair sprinkled up his muscular forearms.

Strong arms were kryptonite.

Mine.

I could image them banding around me, picking me up and hauling me close, setting me on this very bar top as he stepped between my thighs. I could almost feel their hardness against me, a phantom touch stroking my skin, fueling my rising need.

“Yes,” I murmured. “That’s exactly so.”

“Mmm.”

He patted the bar, sending that image blazing to full color, then straightened and returned to the other end of the bar, and I spent the next ten minutes pretending I didn’t notice him while I finished the drink.

That I definitely didn’t notice his ass, glorious and plump, or his thighs straining at the denim encasing his legs. Certainly, I didn’t notice that his biceps stretched the sleeves of his shirt or that he had a tattoo on his back, creeping up and out of the neck of that tight black cotton, caressing his skin in a pattern I was desperate to trace with my tongue.

I didn’t notice any of that.

Nor that I’d reached the bottom of my glass.

Until he turned to face me, his eyes flicking toward my hands.

My own gaze dropped, and I took in the ice, the dredges of juice and alcohol. Then my eyes lifted, drifted to those forearms, those thighs, that ass.

And alarm bells continued to blare.

I watched him lean close to Kace, whisper in his ear.

Kace nodded, but I didn’t bother to stick around any longer. The blaring of all the warning signals had grown too loud. They were deafening, thrumming through me in a rhythm that urged me to go. I reached into my purse, threw thirty bucks on the counter—drinks in the Bay Area were expensive—then pushed off my stool.

I needed sex.

I wanted it with the man on the other end of the bar, with Archer.

I stood by my reasoning that it was a stupid name.

Gorgeous, sexy man. Terrible, terrible name.

Sighing, I slipped my small wallet into the front pocket of my jeans—jeans I’d had specially tailored because clothing manufacturers had decided somewhere along the line that women didn’t need pockets that actually fit useful things like wallets or phones. Oh no, we only needed room for our lipstick, for some mascara, maybe a breath mint so that we could blow dudes with minty freshness.

Fun times.

Deliberately keeping my eyes away from