Rough Hard Fierce (Chicago Underground Boxed Set)(4)

By: Skye Warren

“We don’t need to go anywhere. Let’s get started right here.” I let a soft moan escape me and clasped myself to the brick wall named Colin. Never mind that I was dry as a bone. He wouldn’t notice. They never did.

He raised his eyebrows. “In the parking lot?”

“Or in my car. Whatever. I just want you to do me.”

“I’m not fucking you in a car. It’s forty degrees out.”

I was hardly in this for comfort. I’d done it in colder weather just this past winter. “I don’t mind.”

“Well, I do.”

“Fine.” I was willing to give him so much. Why couldn’t he take it the way I wanted? “Then we can go to the motel over there. You’re paying.”

He didn’t look happy. I wasn’t either, but I couldn’t budge on this. Going to an apartment might be the norm for hookups, but my hookups weren’t normal.

Going to their houses where they might do God knows what was out of the question. And I wasn’t about to bring one of these guys home.

“Not there,” he said. “I’ll pick the place.”

Chapter Two

I followed his truck in my car to a motel about ten minutes away. When I pulled in, he waved me to a parking spot next to his truck and went into the office.

The place wasn’t fancy, but the manicured shrubbery and freshly painted building proclaimed this was an entirely different kind of establishment than the dump by the club. No renting rooms by the hour here.

The sign out front advertised $119.99 a night. A typical price for Chicago, but I sweated the cost. The extravagance of my six-dollar drink from earlier paled in comparison.

What if it was too much money? I might not be worth it.

I kept watch on the frosted office door like he might disappear. Eight minutes later, he came out. My stomach clenched. He flashed a key and nodded toward the back before getting into his truck. I followed him in my car and pulled up beside him again.

It was dark back here. Deserted. The only light came from flickering, yellow lamps dimmed by tiny hordes of bugs. Scattered buildings slumbered around us like a nest of dragons, their snore the low drone from the appliances. It wasn’t exactly safe. Technically that was what I wanted, but the allure of danger only worked up to a point.

He didn’t come to my car. Instead he opened the motel room door and waited.

I could drive away. He probably wouldn’t even come after me. Even if he could, if I drove somewhere safe—assuming there was such a place—there’d be nothing he could do.

But his solemn patience gave me the courage to open the car door and join him.

The stale air and harsh edge of cleaning supplies softened me. I’d ridden along with my dad in his 18-wheeler once. He usually slept in truck stops, but with me he’d gotten motel rooms. This was just an empty room, but it felt strange to use a place for casual sex that I associated with childhood memories.

Once inside the room, I set down my purse on the floral fabric chair.

Colin reached out and trailed his finger along my jaw. His eyes, almost black in the dark motel room, searched my own. I thought he was going to fuck me then, but he said, “I’m going to make coffee.”

I blinked. Shit, coffee. “Okay.”

He went to work at the coffeemaker. Unsure of what to do, I sat down in the chair, clutching my purse in my lap like I was waiting for a doctor’s appointment instead of rough, dirty sex.

He poured a cup of coffee, adding the cream and sugar without comment, and handed it to me. I took a few sips. It soothed some of the skittishness I hadn’t realized I had. He didn’t take any for himself.

Enough of this.

I set down the cup on the cracked countertop and stood to kiss him. I started off light, teasing, hoping to inflame him. This was all calculated, a game of risk and power.

He kissed me back softly, gently, like he didn’t know we’d started playing. He held his body still, but his mouth roamed over mine, skimming and tasting.

It wasn’t a magical kiss. Angels didn’t sing, and nothing caught fire. But he wasn’t too rough or too wet or too anything, and for me it was perfection.

I rubbed against him, undulating to a rhythm born of practice. His hands came up, one to cup my face, the other around my body.