Real (Real, #1)(11)

Women aren’t blasé when it comes to wanting me. She tried to be but I saw her nipples tighten through her top, her pulse beat in her throat. I know I affected her.

Blasé my ass. She’s f*cking lying and another shot, another drink, another woman isn’t going to convince me otherwise.

I’m used to getting what I want and right now, I want this f*cking woman more than any other.

I reach the bar and she catches sight of me, turns, and then hurries to the exit.

Fuckin’ A. She’s running again and I’m chasing.

And the thing about chasing in racing is sometimes it’s a bitch to win a race from behind. But then again, chasing can let you draft, fly beneath the radar, and then slingshot to take the lead and control the race when it matters the most.

Time to slingshot.

I push through the exit moments after her. We’re in some type of hallway but I don’t take notice because our eyes lock. I see the hurt flash before she turns and keeps going.

Uh-uh. No way. She’s not walking away from me again because I may have seen hurt, but I also saw something else. And I need to know what that something else is.

But why, Donavan? Why the f*ck do you care when you can have any woman you want? Snap your fingers and another one will replace the current one?

I grit my teeth as I chase, the view of her walking away becoming a familiar one but hell if it’s not hot as f*ck to watch her ass sway. And therein lies the motherf*cking problem. That view is what keeps me coming back for more. And I lie to myself again because I know it’s so much more than just the curves that keep me chasing.

Let her go. Let her keep on walking out of the hallway, out of my life.

But I don’t want her to. There’s just something about her that I can’t quite put my finger on. Something about her holds me captive, tempts me, demands that I sit up and pay f*cking attention.

I reach out, my hand on her arm, and pull her backwards. Her body turns so we stand face to face, bodies inches apart, and f*ck … I’m pissed.

Pissed that she hates me. Pissed that she wants me. Frustrated that I want to just walk away but for some f*cking reason I can’t.

I was seduced by her kiss and moved by her with her boys yesterday. We basically f*cked on the dance floor an hour ago and then she was with Surfer Joe and I swore it was a show. Something to play me like the games so many women use to get my attention. But then when I gave it to her, she left me high and dry without a chance to make the decision her eyes dared me to.

Choose her, pick her, drown in her.

She may not be playing the bullshit games, but it’s still her fault. I use the need for her I don’t want to feel to feed my anger. I don’t want this—complications and estrogen fueled bullshit. I want a quick f*ck, that’s it. A roll in the sheets to satisfy the craving she’s created and move on. I hold onto that lie and give the one reaction I can since the only other option my mind can think of is her beneath me.

And f*cking hell, I want that.

“What the f*ck do you think you’re doing?” My voice is low and spiteful, my hand squeezing tighter on her arm to prevent it from sliding down her side. I yank her against me.

“Excuse me?”

She seems shocked that I’m angry. If I wasn’t intimately familiar with the bite to her tongue, her reaction would leave me thinking she’s used to being handled with kid gloves. But I know better than that, know she can hold her own.

“You have an annoying little habit of running away from me, Rylee.” I watch the shock flicker across her face. Does she not see it? Kisses me and then runs at the benefit. Kisses me and runs at The House. Kisses me until I want so much more than just the small sample I had at the beach. That’s a whole lot of tempt and not a lot of take on my part.

It’s called blue balls, sweetheart. Something’s got to give soon and I sure as f*ck hope it’s both our zippers.

“What’s it to you, Mr. I-Send-Mixed-Signals?” She jerks her arm from my hand. Physical connection broken but f*ck if the sexual tension isn’t eating us alive.

“You’re one to talk, sweetheart. Is that guy—is he what you really want, Rylee?” My mind flashes back to the f*cker’s hand on her, body up against hers. I see red then green. Fuck. The red I’m used to, but the jealousy is a whole different ball game I’ve never even taken a practice swing in. “A quick romp with Surfer Joe? You want to f*ck him instead of me?”

I clench my jaw to control my need to taste those sexy-as-sin lips of hers she’s scowling at me with. I fist my hands, that deep V of her dress calling to my fingers to dip inside and cup those tits she’s pushing in my face as her chest heaves up and down from her angered breaths.

I deserve a goddamn medal for fighting this urge. For not touching when every ounce of me screams at me to plunder and pillage that mouth until it’s swollen from use. My desire turns to anger because what I see in her eyes, what it makes me feel, isn’t something I’m supposed to feel.

Fuck this.

Fuck her.

And f*ck me because that’s exactly the problem—wanting to f*ck her—but newsflash, I know this is too goddamn complicated. A quick f*ck is not supposed to be like this. Step away. Back the f*ck off and go, Donavan. Turn around and walk the other way because those eyes of hers tell you this is going to be anything but simple.

I take a step closer.

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