Stolen Course (Wrecked and Ruined #2)

“Emmy, I don’t play games,” I whisper into her ear. Her breathing quickens, and she lets out small moan as I circle my hips into hers.

“Yes, you do,” she says, tilting her head to the side. I don’t lean in to taste the exposed neck that might as well be screaming my name. But that doesn’t stop her from leaning forward and dragging her tongue up the side of mine. She pauses at my ear. “You play games the same way I do—hard.” And with that, she pushes her breasts against my chest and rolls her hips into mine.

Fucking hell. I’ve met my match. Things just got dangerous for a completely different reason.

“We need to go home,” I say, barely restraining myself from fucking her right here.

“Yes, we do,” she responds, and thank God for that. I don’t have to patience to try to convince her right now.

“I’ll close the tab. You grab our jackets. We’re going back to my place. You good with that?”

“Yep. Sounds like a plan.” She pulls her hands from my grip, straightens her shirt, and walks away seemingly unaffected.

I wish I could say the same, but the raging hard-on threatening to break my zipper keeps me standing here and reciting basketball stats for a few minutes longer.





CALEB AND I ride home in silence, but he holds my hand the entire way. Thankfully the cab ride is short, because there is a very serious chance that I am going to spontaneously combust if I don’t get him naked soon. After that little display at the bar, we both know where this is headed. So when we arrive at his house, it’s all I can do not to sprint to the door.

His house is a ridiculously cute, old brick one-story. The yard is perfectly manicured, even despite the piles of snow that are just now melting. He leads me inside to a surprisingly clean and organized living room. There are a few wooden frames scattered across the walls. The whole place is very well decorated, but there are no knickknacks or mementos filling the area. The only thing that even resembles a knickknack is a clay pot sitting in the corner. I’m assuming it used to hold a flower, but the plant is long since dead and gone.

The furniture is nice, brown leather, and while it does look like a bachelor pad, it also has a warm, homey feel. I look around the room, trying to take in everything that is Caleb Jones. The stripped wood coffee table has a few magazines strewn across the top, but everything else is perfectly in its place.

“Wow. I figured there would be dirty clothes everywhere. I’ve lived with two guys and neither one of them was this neat.” I run my finger over his bookshelf, pretending to check for dust.

“I’m a neat guy, but I also have a cleaning lady who comes once a week.”

“Ah! Makes more sense, although the idea of you with a vacuum and feather duster was really doing something for me.”

He begins to laugh. “I guess I could clean something if that’s what gets you off,” he jokes but begins to roll up his sleeves, revealing some very unexpected tattoos.

“Holy shit!” I say breathlessly as I visually orgasm.

“What?” he asks, staring at me like I’m crazy.

“You have ink!”

“Do you have a problem with that?”

Sweet Mother of Hotness. “No. I love them.” Are there seriously woman out there who have issues with tattoos? Because they shouldn’t be allowed to run loose in society.

“That’s probably a good thing. I’ve got a few.”

“You have more? Let me see!”

He laughs at my excitement but confidently pulls off his shirt, revealing more mouthwatering art.

The tattoos on his forearms are actually full sleeves. They are made of different shapes and patterns all pieced together to form one perfectly flowing design. Over his heart, he has the name Manda. The top of the “M” is broken off and appears to be a bird flying away. There are eight other birds flying up toward his shoulder, growing increasingly larger as they drift up his sculpted chest.

Above and beyond the spectacular designs, his body is to die for. Caleb is gorgeous, no denying that. He’s tall and lean, but every inch of his body is covered in hard muscle. I have no idea what the hell those muscles are called just above his pants, but they make me want to trace them down to the sure-to-be-amazing package below. I struggle to keep in the moan that is desperately trying to escape my throat. Shit, he’s hot. He remains still while I ogle his body, but a barely there smile tips his lips.

“You want a beer?” He reaches to put his shirt back on.

“Don’t do that!” I yell, exposing my sopping-wet panties. Real smooth, Emma. I never was any good at playing coy.

“Well, well, well. Does someone have a thing for tattoos?” He struts over to me in a way so ridiculously sexy that only Caleb could pull it off. It’s also annoying as shit because he so obviously has the upper hand here—something I don’t share very well.