The following is an original work of fiction. All characters belong to the author and any likenesses to real people or places is purely coincidental. Please do not copy or repose any part or portion of this work to any other website.
Copyrighted by Eris Jade
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I'm in for it. I know it, but I can't stop, and am actually enjoying the frisson of excitement that winds its way through me at the distinct sound of a motorcycle engine revving outside before it shuts off abruptly. Soon comes the familiar crunch of gravel, and the even more familiar heavy, measured thumping of footfalls as Oakley makes his way up the front walk.
I told myself I wouldn't run to the door, wouldn't peek out the curtain to catch a glimpse of him, however, my body is not my own and I'm yanking open the front door before I've had a chance to remind myself of my earlier promises.
I try to play it cool, standing with one hand on a cocked hip, but the sight of him bathed in moonlight, looking dark and deliciously dangerous, has my heart thumping erratically behind my ribcage. Each heavy clunk of his boots on the front steps echoes through my blood, sending flutters of want and anticipation swirling through me.
All too soon he's standing before me, looking down the long line of his nose at me, his impossibly dark green eyes sparking faintly in the halo of light falling around him. He regards me silently and I take a moment to look him over.
He's not my type. Well, not the type to which I'd ever been attracted, and I'm hesitant to admit that I don't want anything else these days. Anything else would be too tame, too vanilla, compared to the hulking being before me.
He's tall, which is only part of the appeal, the top of my head barely reaches his chin. It always feels as if he's towering over me. Yet, the fear I once felt while gazing up at him has morphed into something else, something more powerful and potent. There is still fear in me, yes, but it's tangled up with sex and fire now.
His skin is a smooth golden tan - several shades lighter than my own chestnut hue - beneath the black of his t-shirt, beneath the menacing black and red tattoos flowing fluidly up his thickly muscled arms. Those muscles flex and release as I gaze at them, and I swallow, imagining myself wrapped up in them, pinned down by them.
I allow my eyes to move further up his frame and to his face. He is starkly handsome, all hard lines and thinly veiled menace. His auburn hair is long, coming to curl softly just below the tops of his broad shoulders, the soft silkiness of it a complete contrast to him as a whole. A couple days worth of a scruffy beard shadows his hard jawline; my fingertips itch with the need to touch it.
"Have you changed your number?" he says by way of greeting, the first to break the silence stretching between us. His voice is rough and low, coming from somewhere deep within his body and edged with such danger that I know I should slam the door in his face, throw the bolt quickly.
But I merely arch a brown and reply, simply, "I haven't."
I watch the faint tick of his jaw, the almost imperceptible narrowing of his eyes.
He's angry, and I'm glad for it. It means I've finally gotten under his skin.
This isn't the normal game, the usual flirtation, but that changed a couple weeks ago during one of the few nights out in which I rarely indulge. I'd seen him at a local bar, which had been a surprise in and of itself because we don't run in the same circles. Even more surprising to me was the busty blonde draped across the broad expanse of his back. She had giggled and tittered, obviously whispering naughty things in his ear while her fingers sifted through his hair with a familiarity that caused my stomach to tighten with anger and, if I'm completely honest, jealousy.
Our eyes had met through the smoky haze of the room, and I was certain he caught the anger in mine before I marched to the bar and downed one of the shots that had been waiting for me. For the rest of the night, I'd pretended he didn't exist.
And, now, here we stand, after two weeks worth of dozens of ignored phone calls and texts, and my body still longs to wrap itself around his.
"Are you going to invite me inside," he asks, taking a small step toward me, and I quell the urge to step backward and out of his path.
Instead, I lean my shoulder into the door frame, feigning an indifference I don't feel.
"Like you've ever needed an invitation to do anything." My words are soft, though no less accusing.
Again, his eyes narrow at me.
"You don't want to play this game with me," he practically growls, the warning, the menace, evident.
A spark of anger lights through me and I clench my fists at my sides, fixing my mouth to tell him to 'fuck off', but he charges at me before I've even had the chance. His thick arms loop around my waist, forcing the air out of me in a loud whoosh, and I'm suddenly off my feet and moving backwards. I hear the door slam as he kicks it shut behind him.
His footsteps echo hollowly against the hardwood floor, underscoring the faint strains of Bonnie Raitt drifting through the house, as he makes his way down the hall and into the dimly lit living room.
"Fuckin' Oakley," I huff in irritation, my palms pushing uselessly into the solid line of his shoulders. My body is reacting to him already, everything inside me tensing in hot excitement.
"Hmph, and here I thought you'd forgotten my name."
