Bad Judgment (22 page)

Can I make that promise?

I nod my head, the single motion spurring the words. “No regrets. I promise.”

Ryker

I’ve waited years for this. Justine Porter, standing in my living room, one hand on the shoulder of her Wonder Woman top, her lower lip caught between her teeth.

I’m going to have her every way I’ve ever imagined. She’s mine now, whether she realizes it or not.

“Strip. Slowly.”

Her eyes go wide at my command before sharpening on me. She releases her lip and cocks a hip.

“How long have you been saving that up?”

“Way too long. But since I saw you at the Vu, it’s been at the top of my list.”

She walks toward me, pressing a fingertip against my chest. “You wanted to see me on that stage? Working a pole?” Her tone is seductive, and my already stiff cock goes rock hard.

I shake my head in response. “I would’ve dragged you off the stage before I’d let any other guy see you strip.”

Her dark eyes glimmer with heat. “But you wanted a private show?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely.”

Justine steps back, and I don’t know if she’ll let her inner temptress out to play, but I watch in approval as she reaches for the shoulder of her top again and shimmies one and then the other down her arms. She leans forward, exposing that spectacular cleavage and those luscious tits, but I want more because that’s the kind of greedy bastard I am.

“More. I want to see it all.”

I wait for her to balk, but she doesn’t. Justine pulls the spandex further down her arms, and her tits are spilling out of the low-cut black bra. The straps dangle by her elbows as she reaches up to cup her tits.

“Fuck me.” She would have made a mint as a stripper, but I definitely would have killed someone.

“I thought that’s what we were here for.”

“Take off the bra.” I need to get my mouth on her nipples. I’ve jacked off so many times wondering what color they are.

She reaches behind her back to unclasp the bra, but holds it against herself for a beat before letting it fall.

“Sweet fucking Christ,” I breathe. High and firm, topped with pale pink nipples. Even better than I imagined.

Knowing I won’t be able to hold out long enough to give her what she deserves if this striptease continues, I stride forward and snatch the bra from her grip. My hands wrapped around her upper arms, I back her up against the floor-to-ceiling window.

Justine’s palms press against my chest, gripping my shirt. “I thought you liked the tease.”

“I fucking love it. Too much.”

I take her lips, covering her mouth with mine and pressing my lower body against her. I want her to feel what she does to me. Justine is no passive participant in the kiss—she steals the role as aggressor, pulling away to bite my lower lip before sucking my tongue back into her mouth. Her hands find their way around the back of my neck, and take control once more. It’s a constant battle for supremacy, and I’ve never been so ready after one kiss.

Only Justine.

That shouldn’t surprise me in the least.

I knew she was different. Whether consciously or on a gut level, I wouldn’t have spent two years in pursuit if she hadn’t been fucking amazing. And now she’s mine.

I may not have had her yet, but I don’t care. I know what’s coming is going to be the best night of my life, and I’m going to do every damn thing in my power to make sure it’s unforgettable for her.

I want her addicted to me.

It’s only fair, because I’ll never get enough of her.

Justine

Ryker’s hands roam my body, lighting up my skin. I’m buzzing with the headiness of everything—his kiss and his touch. I’ve never had this kind of reaction before, and even though I don’t have tons of notches on my bedpost, I know this is totally different.

I want my clothes off. I want him inside me. I want it now.

Foreplay later. What does that make it? After-play? Round two? Whatever.

He rolls my nipple between two fingers and I squeeze my thighs together, failing to quell the ache.

Dropping one hand from the back of his neck where I’ve been holding on for dear life, I slide it between our bodies and palm his cock.

The best way to get what I want without having to beg for it? Make it what he wants.

“Fuck, baby.” His breath catches as he drops his forehead against mine. “You want that?”

I can’t lie. “Yes. Hurry.”

Ryker drops his gaze to mine, but before I can read his expression, he steps back and twines his fingers through my hand that was just wrapped around his erection. “I changed my mind. I want you in my bed. Under me. I want to hear my name echoing down the hall as you scream when I make you come.”

My inner muscles clench, and in that moment, I’d let him take me anywhere as long as he follows through on his promises.

As I trail him down the dark hallway, his grip on my hand silences any lingering hesitation. I’m not second-guessing anything now. Instead, I’m taking everything I can get.

When we reach the doorway, Ryker stops, turns, and wraps both hands around my waist before picking me up and carrying me toward the giant bed. Once we’re close, he twists around and drops onto it, falling backward with me on top of him.

I waste no time as my hands go for the hem of his shirt and tug it up. He raises his arms and within seconds his chest is bare, and I’m taking advantage. This time it’s my hands covering every inch of his skin, learning him, tasting him. It lasts only a minute or so before he grips me again by the hips and rolls us over.

The rest of my costume, and my panties, are gone in moments. All I’m wearing is confidence and a smile.

Ryker pushes off me to stand, fingers working the button and zipper of his jeans. He shoves them down and his cock springs free.
Commando.
Why is that so damn hot?

Just like it did the night in his bed at his parents’ house, my mouth waters at the sight of his perfect erection. I want it between my lips. I want him so on edge that he can’t control himself when he finally slides inside me.

His blue eyes burn with heat, and I wonder if he’s picturing the same thing. I sit up as he steps forward, reaching for him, but Ryker’s hand grips my wrist before I can make contact.

“No. I’m gonna come in that tight little pussy first, and if I let you get your hands on my cock, I’m a goner.” He steps toward the nightstand and digs in the drawer. He tears open a foil packet, rolling a condom down his length before returning to spread my knees and step between them.

Instead of thrusting inside me, he pauses. “Speak now or forever hold your peace, Justine. We can’t go back after this, so you better make damn sure it’s what you want.”

I’m past the point of no return, and I’m done questioning my choice. Good, bad, or indifferent, I’m doing this.

“Don’t make me beg.”

A darkly satisfied smile tugs at his lips. “Oh, you’re going to beg.”

Before I can say another word, he presses the head to my entrance and buries himself inside me.

Holy. Hell.

Full. So full.

Everything after that initial sensation is washed in a blur of impending orgasm and need. Stroke after stroke, he powers into me. Hands under my ass, he lifts me up, changing the angle and ratcheting up the pleasure. I’m screaming his name as I come the first time, and begging incoherently until he ruthlessly pushes me over the edge into a second shattering climax. Ryker’s roar as he comes is imprinted in my brain.

He’s right. I’m never going to forget this.

Ryker

I wake up with nothing but cool sheets and an empty pillow beside me, and my first thought is that Justine left. She ran. She’s gone.

I roll out of bed and stride into the kitchen, pissed that she would bail after last night. Pissed that she’d walk without even telling me to go fuck myself first. She’s a woman and therefore mercurial in mood. But she’s also Justine, so she’s beyond unpredictable.

Anger is rushing through my veins and I’m headed for the counter to grab my keys, intent on tracking her down because I’m spoiling for a fight. You don’t have a night like we did last night and then just disappear without a word.

Is this how all those girls felt when I bailed before morning? Is this poetic justice at work?

But all my introspection evaporates when I see Justine reaching up into the cabinet beside the stove, wearing nothing but my Captain America T-shirt from last night. It rides up, exposing the curve of her ass as she reaches to the top shelf to grab something.

I’m dumbstruck. Silently, I drink in the vision of her in my kitchen.

She hums to herself as she pulls down the nonstick spray and uses it on the frying pan. I still can’t find any words as she sets the pan on the burner, tests the heat, and spoons in white batter in three spots.

Pancakes?

Justine Porter is in my kitchen, naked except for my shirt, making pancakes.

I must have done something very, very right in another life to be rewarded this way.

She turns and reaches for a drawer, I’m assuming to look for a spatula, but sees me and screeches.

“Jesus Christ, you scared the shit out of me!” She slaps her hand over her heaving chest in the vicinity of her heart. But let’s be honest—all I see is braless tits bouncing in my shirt.

Striding toward her, I back Justine into the corner of my kitchen, trapping her in the circle of my arms, my hands pressing against the countertop on either side of her hips.

“I thought you left.” The words come out harsher than I intended from the residual anger. I hadn’t planned to say them at all. Hadn’t planned for her to know I was freaking the fuck out, but they came out anyway. “I thought I was going to have to drive over to campus and bang down your door to find out why you bailed on me.”

Both of her dark eyebrows arch up. “Really? I have a feeling that would be a case of the pot calling the kettle black, if you know what I mean.”

“I wanted you in my bed when I woke up.”

“And I wanted pancakes.” She twists to look at the stove and the batter in the frying pan. “Which need to be flipped.”

I don’t give a shit about the fucking pancakes. Not when I’ve got her in my arms, all sleep-tousled hair, no makeup, and looking sexy as hell. But Justine is intent and more awake than I am. She ducks out from under my arm and yanks open a drawer to remove the spatula.

“They can burn for all I—”

Justine turns, and with lightning-fast reflexes, smacks me on the ass with it.

“What the—” I start, rubbing the stinging spot on my ass.

“They are not going to burn. I may not be good at much in the kitchen, but I make kick-ass pancakes.”

She turns her back on me to flip them, but not after shooting me a smirk as I rub my ass again.

A couple of minutes later, Justine slides three perfect silver-dollar pancakes onto a plate and sets it on the bar. “You can have the first round. They’re a little bit darker than I was going for on the one side, but that’s your fault.”

I might be a guy, but I’m not completely stupid. There’s a sexy-as-hell woman in my kitchen, mostly naked, and she’s feeding me. I’m going to eat the fucking pancakes.

“They look better than anything I can make.”