When we arrive at the bank, he stays in the car to make a phone call. I originally wanted to come here to withdraw some money to live on for the next week, but as I deposit the massive check, I add another purpose to my visit.
After the bank teller cuts me a certified check made out to Gateway Shelter, I head back to the car with the taste of happy tears in the back of my throat.
“A few more stops.” I spot the black sedan a few parking spaces away. “Schnucks Pharmacy on Gravois is next.”
He merges the Midget into traffic, shifting through the gears like a pro. “What do you need there?”
The nosy bastard doesn’t need to know I buy prescriptions for my neighbors.
“I’m out of condoms.” I flash him a smile.
It’s hard to tell what emotion those aristocratic features are conveying, but I’m certain it’s not enthusiasm.
“We’re stopping by the casino on the way back,” he growls.
At the pharmacy, he goes inside with me, glowering like an ill-mannered barbarian when I add a package of Trojan Magnum XL condoms to Virginia’s arthritis prescription.
“Quit scowling.” I pull some cash from my pocket. “They’re not for you.”
The young man behind the register watches us through his hipster glasses.
Trace grabs the bag from the man’s hand and storms out of the store in all his temperamental glory.
I pay the cashier and take my time wandering through the aisles. When I step outside, he’s not in the car or anywhere in sight. My throat tightens. Did he leave?
As I scan the parking lot for his driver, an arm hooks around my waist from behind. I glimpse the blue sleeve of Trace’s shirt before he crashes my back against the building, wraps a hand around my throat, and covers my mouth in a searing kiss.
Perfect lips slide over mine. Perfect biceps flex beneath my hands. Perfect insanity spirals through me and spins the world off its axis.
Trace sinks his tongue into my mouth, punishing me with beautiful, brutal, intoxicating strokes. His hand slips around my neck, joined by the other at the back of my head, holding me to him as he deepens the kiss.
All thought is gone, decimated completely beneath the fury of his assault. I taste his low-simmering anger, but there’s also possession, acceptance, and desire reverberating through every curling caress.
The hum of sexual energy pulses between us as he lifts me, presses my back against the brick wall of the pharmacy, and licks deeper, faster, inside my mouth.
He feels wild and reckless beneath my skin, in the fingers biting my backside, in the teeth clashing against mine. I surrender to the rising frenzy of hunger, lips brushing, chests heaving, our moans low and muffled with need.
Somewhere nearby, a car door slams. Traffic rumbles in the distance. The rattle of grocery carts come and go. And Trace shows no sign of pulling back.
He feeds from my lips like he’s starving, his mouth hard and unforgiving, his hands kneading the muscles of my butt. He pins me so tightly against him I feel the steel flanks of his waist between my thighs, the length of his erection swelling against my pussy, and the rush of his breaths consuming my own.
The need to cling to this moment curls my fingers into his shoulders, demanding he keep going. Don’t stop.
His lips press harder against mine, and I kiss him back with a fevered madness that convulses through me like an earthquake, vibrating my limbs and burning me up.
Desperate sounds of greed rise from my throat, and he groans in response, his powerful body wrapped up in mine and shaking against me. I arch away from the wall as pleasure radiates through my core, pulsing between my legs and drenching my panties.
The intensity of the kiss is shocking, the feel of his hot satin tongue overwhelmingly erotic. It sweeps against mine viciously, masterfully, and I gasp, my breasts crushed against his chest and my lips tingling and swollen.
Too soon, his mouth breaks away, sliding to my ear, panting, growling, whispering, “Fuck.”
He lowers my feet to the ground but stays close, crowding me as he yanks on the cuffs of his sleeves and glares down at his erection. “Where to next?”
“Second base?”
“That’s not what I mean.” He braces a hand on the wall above my head and inconspicuously adjusts his bulge with the other hand.
“Need help with that?”
He steps back and scowls at me with full, wet, pouty lips. Then he turns on his heel and strides toward my car.
“No, no, no.” I run after him. “We’re going to talk about this.”
He continues along his determined path and removes the car key from his pocket.
“Dammit, Trace.” I jog faster. “That kiss”—that explosive smoldering kiss that rocked the ground beneath our feet—“changes everything.”
“It changes nothing.” He lowers into the Midget.
The car groans and rocks beneath his weight. I might’ve laughed if I weren’t so fucking irritated.
I’m still trembling with the aftershocks of bliss, which only ignite the flames of purpose. I refuse to let him pretend that didn’t happen.
“Do you kiss all the women you don’t want to fuck like that?” I climb into the car and angle over the console to face him.
“I kiss a lot of women.” His eyes cut to me, hard and imperious. “Whoever, however, whenever I want.” He fires up the engine. “Put your seatbelt on.”
My heart feels like it’s shrinking, but it doesn’t hurt. It’s just disappointment, an emotion I know how to deal with.
“You say you don’t want messy.” I lean in, shoving my face in his. “But you’re flirting with it, and honey, I will flirt right back. So put that in your pocket and fondle it when you’re alone at night.”
“You were right about one thing.” His scowl twists into something ugly and implacable. “I don’t date. I fuck. Which means I’m never alone at night.”
My breath lodges in my throat, and I ease back, straightening in the seat and latching the seatbelt. A burning sensation ripples through my jaw. Jealousy, probably. But the feeling is quickly squashed by the stab of an old unhealed wound. A wound inflicted by another man.
I rotate the silver band on my finger, dragging the inscription of lies against my skin. It’s easy to blame Cole for my deepest hurts, because I never felt real pain until he vanished from my life. That’s the ache crushing my airway right now. Grief. Hopeless, irrevocable grief for the man I lost.
“Next stop is downtown.” I give Trace the address for Gateway Shelter and slide on the sunglasses, hiding the moisture pricking my eyes.
“That’s not a safe area at any time of day.” He tilts his head, regarding me out of the corner of his eye. “What do you need to do there?”
“If you don’t want to drive me, your car is right over there.” I flick a finger toward the black sedan parked a few feet away.
He stares through the windshield, his thumb sliding back and forth on the steering wheel. Then he shoves the Midget into gear and peels out of the parking lot.