“Atticus,” she says again. With two feet between us, we stand there, our eyes tangled in what feels like a silent battle. I want her to say something, to steal words out of my mouth, to make this easier. But god dammit, what kind of man am I if I drag her out here and don’t sack up?
“This fuckin’ guy?” I say, forcing rigidity into my voice. Forcing the dominance I certainly don’t feel. In fact, I feel like dropping to my knees at her feet, skimming my palms up her legs, and burying my face in her cunt until she’s crying my name.
Some of the tension inside me fades when she puts a hand on her hip, a scowl tightening her expression. That’s the Goldie I know. “You really came here, pulled me out into the snow just to tell me you think I have bad taste in dates?” She steps toward me, and her white breath hovers between us. “Why do you care, Atticus?”
We stand there, and I can hardly breathe as I formulate my answer. I don’t know how to answer, but I know I’ll be in more trouble if I don’t.
Stepping forward, I rest my hands on the bare column of her neck, then slide my palms along the tops of her shoulders. I shove them down her arms, sending the jackass’s suit coat to the snowy ground.
“Atticus! That’s his! You can’t–”
I sink my mouth down over hers and swallow her complaints. She puts up no fight, and immediately I know whether it was classy or not, I did the right thing coming here.
Some part of her wants me.
And I’d rather have a sliver of Goldie than none of her.
“Atticus,” she says my name again breathlessly, and it’s then I realize I’m holding her; my arms are wrapped around her, and her hands are woven through my stubble, holding my face. Our eyes idle together as my chest and gut twist and tangle in some trapeze-like shit. I catch my breath, then find my words.
“You’re too good for that loser,” I say, curling my fingers into her satin dress. Her hard little body paired with the smooth fabric shorts the wires in my brain. One of my hands slides down to her ass and I squeeze it, growling my approval down to her.
She fights a smile but never fully gives it to me. “How do you know he’s a loser?”
“Tell me he’s not.”
She blinks, and a fleck of snow gets caught in her thick lashes.
“If he’s not, why are you out here in my arms?” I retort. Cars zip by on the icy road nearby, and a few customers leave the restaurant, their soft chatter getting further and further away the longer we stand there.
She opens her mouth to speak but closes it, letting her eyes hover on my mouth. I kiss her again, and she doesn’t hold back. Our tongues collide as my hand smooths up her spine, gripping the back of her neck possessively. Everything about Goldie has me possessive.
Parting again, she asks the question that puts any unknown to rest, and I’m surprised she does. “Do you like me?”
I swallow hard but force myself to answer quickly, so there’s no doubt. “This is my favorite restaurant. If you wanted to come here, I would’ve brought you.”
She blinks a few times, but she doesn’t untangle her arms from my waist. “You didn’t answer the question.”
“I’m here, ain’t I?” I push a piece of silky hair off her lips, then claim them again.
“Then do something about it,” she whispers, and it’s such a seductive, enticing offer that I leap. Spinning her around, I press her back to my truck and she hisses.
“Cold, cold, cold,” she pants, but still doesn’t ask to be released. I yank off my flannel and feed her arms through, wrapping her in it. Snow falls in dizzyingly romantic intervals around us, the orange glow of the parking lot light illuminating her like a fuckin’ Alphonse Mucha piece. She’s a goddamn queen.
I drop to my knees and place my hands on her bare thighs. She’s riddled with goosebumps, but her teeth aren’t chattering. She isn’t even shivering.
“What are you doing?” she asks, her brows pinching together as she looks down at me. Her attention divides when she looks over her shoulder, back toward the restaurant about twenty feet away. “Kurt’s going to come out and look for me if I’m gone too long.”
Gathering the satin around her waist, I press my nose to her pussy and take a long, deep inhale. She smells so goddamn good. There ain’t no fabric softener or perfume it can be compared to, either.
Her scent is completely hers and completely unique. It’s arousing and comfortable, and it worms through my veins, making my cock thrum and the organ behind my ribs feel tight and tingly.
“Do I have permission to make you cum?” I ask, and again, I don’t know why I’m asking. Not my style. Or, never has been in the past, at least. But her eyes glisten in the cool evening ambiance, and I know asking was the right choice.
“Yes,” she whispers with a grin, still glancing over her shoulder at the door.
And before she can think twice and realize we could get arrested for this, that her date could walk out and find her, that this is a bad idea—getting so wrapped up in each other without a talk being had, parameters being set… without the safety on, we can both get hurt… I kiss low on her stomach.
I push those thoughts from my brain as I tug her panties aside and dip my tongue between her pussy lips, giving her clit a flick.