Ghost Dance (Tulsa Thunderbirds Book 3) (29 page)

“Will you bring me another glass of wine, too?” she called out after me.

“You finished that bottle already.” And I honestly wasn’t sure she needed any more. But at least she was home and wouldn’t be going anywhere else for the foreseeable future.

“There’s another,” she said. “Corkscrew’s in the drawer by the stove.”

I grabbed a bottle of water, took out the new bottle of wine, and dug through her drawer until I found the corkscrew, all the while thinking I was making a huge mistake, even though I didn’t have the first clue what that mistake might be. Either way, it didn’t stop me from going ahead with what she asked. I went back into the living room and opened the wine. When I reached across to fill her glass, she grabbed hold of my wrist, tugging me toward her so hard the wine spilled on her arm.

“Playing with fire,” I warned her even as a needy growl left me.

But she jerked on my wrist until I had to straddle her lap in order to avoid toppling her, completely ignoring all semblance of sense.

“I’ve missed you,” she said, the sweet scent of her wine clouding the span of air between us. It was enough for me to get drunk on, especially once I combined it with the heady scent of
her
.

“Missed you, too. But you said no fucking,” I reminded her, moving the wine bottle to the other hand so I could set it on the coffee table. No need to spill more than we already had.

She gave me a seductive pout, trailing the fingers of her free hand over my abs. “I know. But I like to play with you.”

“Like I’m your pet?” I forced out. I shouldn’t have done that. I should have kept my temper in check, but apparently I had no intention of behaving reasonably as long as she was acting like a wild woman. Simply giving voice to the words was more than enough to have me spitting mad again.

London didn’t seem to notice my anger, or maybe she didn’t care. She spread her palm over my chest and slid her fingers up toward my neck, still holding my wrist captive with her other hand. “I might like petting you,” she murmured. “Waiting to see if I can make you purr.”

“Play with me like this too long and I’ll bite.”

Her eyes flared, and my cock pulsed. She licked her lips and dug her fingers in around the nape of my neck, tugging me down to her.

The instant our lips met, it was like tossing a match on gasoline. Everything went up in flames. Our clothes. Any good intentions I might have had. My resolve.

All gone.

Anger mixed with passion, melting away everything but the need to be inside her. I ripped open a condom from my wallet and somehow got it settled in place before I forgot about it again. But she made me want to forget everything except the immediate, the here and now.

I lifted her over my lap and spread her legs wide, bringing her down onto me like there was nowhere else she belonged. She held on, hands braced on my shoulders, face buried in the tattoo on my neck, while I slammed my way home over and over again.

I dug my fingers into her ass, and she clenched all around me. Tight. So fucking wet. Shuddering and crying out things that would never make sense. I smacked her ass, hard enough it stung my hand. She arched into me and bit my neck, and it felt so damn good I nearly lost all control. So I slapped her ass again, hoping for more of the same.

Spasms racked through her. “Don’t stop, Dima,” she moaned, not that I had any intention of stopping.

I reveled in the knowledge that spanking her was as much of a turn-on for her as it was for me, striking her ass time and again until I didn’t have anything left in the tank to give. By the time I came, her ass was red and hot to the touch, and she’d had at least two orgasms.

She collapsed on top of me, wrapping her arms around my body in a sweaty, sensual hug that I wanted to last for an eternity.

Another thought that scared the shit out of me. There seemed to be a lot of those happening lately. Which meant I needed to put an end to it immediately, or I was going to get in over my head and not be able to climb my way back out. I shifted London off my lap and got up.

“Don’t,” she said in some combination of a whine and a seductive purr that did a number on me.

“Don’t what?” I bit off on my way to the bathroom to deal with the condom and get a washcloth for her.

“Don’t go.”

Something told me she’d be singing a different tune if she hadn’t had almost half a bottle of wine.

But something else told me I wouldn’t be leaving.

I WOKE UP
with my alarm blaring, the sun streaming in through the window, a splitting headache, the most delicious post-sex ache I could remember, and the weight and warmth of Dima’s body pinning me to my mattress. Nausea, too. Lots of nausea.

Oh, yeah. And I also woke up with a gut-busting case of regret, which only made my hangover headache worse than it was on its own. Why had I let myself get so drunk that the thought of sleeping with Dima seemed like a good plan? It went against everything I’d told myself had to happen. The more I gave in, the less likely he would be to ever make the changes he needed to make. I’d seen it before with Wade, and I
couldn’t
do that again with Dima. But here I was, falling back into bed with him because I’d been shaken and hurt and drunk, and he’d been here to pick up the pieces.

I shoved on his shoulders, trying to make him move, but he was still dead to the world. It was impossible to get him to budge even an inch, at least until such time as I got him awake.

I pushed. I tried to roll out from under him. I called his name multiple times.

Nothing.

So I did what any reasonable woman would do under similar circumstances. I dug my fingernails into his butt and pinched.

He let out a string of Russian expletives.

“Still a bitch, I know,” I grumbled, shoving his shoulders again. “Get off me. I need to get up.” Because I never wanted to move again, and that was a scary thought. I couldn’t let things happen like this, because I’d only end up getting my heart broken again in the end. Falling for a man like Dima was bad news, especially since he hadn’t shown any sign at all that he was willing to deal with his past.

And I was definitely starting to fall for him. There was no other explanation for why I would have taken him to my bed last night, wine-brain or not.

I was an idiot. I’d let Wade get into my head yesterday, and then I’d compensated for the crappy way I felt about how that had all gone down by getting drunk. And then I’d made the biggest mistake of all by sleeping with Dima.

He grumbled and groaned, most of it in Russian, but he finally rolled off me.

When I turned on my side to get into my chair, though, I realized it wasn’t in my bedroom. I vaguely recalled Dima carrying me to my bed last night, the fuzzy memory combining with images of another night filled with as many sexual positions as we could fit in before the sun came up. Stupid of me. How could I have lost my mind so badly that I’d completely ignored everything I’d been telling myself since Christmas?

“I need my chair,” I croaked. And some water to help with the hangover, but I could get that for myself once I had my chair.

But Dima didn’t get out of the bed to go get it for me. Instead, he put his big, callused hand on my bare butt and squeezed. Hard. My skin tingled where he touched me, and I was immediately ready for more.

Wrong answer.

I pressed my eyes closed and tried to will my lusty urges away.

“Still pink,” he said, and I blushed.

Typically, I blushed about as often as I cried, so almost never. At least he couldn’t see my face.

He rubbed my cheek a couple of times before giving me another sound smack, but then he finally got out of bed and stalked off to the living room. He didn’t even bother to put a sheet around himself, giving me an excellent view of his toned backside. My mouth watered at the sight, which was absolutely the
wrong
reaction to have. Again.

This seemed to be becoming a habit.

A moment later, Dima pushed my chair into my bedroom and stopped it next to the bed, my purse positioned on the seat. “Thought you might need it,” he said.

“Why would I need my purse?” My head hurt too much to try to decipher why he would think something like that.

“How the fuck I’m supposed to know? You always needed purse and chair together at my house.”

The catheter. I didn’t want to explain it to him now. Hell, I didn’t want to explain it to him at all. I wanted him to put on his clothes, get out of my house, and not step back into my life to tempt me until he started getting his own life in order. Because apparently, I couldn’t trust myself when he was around, at least not when I was already overly emotional because of things between me and Wade.

I knew where Dima stood—he wanted to be with me, but he didn’t want to leave the past in the past—so it shouldn’t be a surprise that he would readily jump into bed with me the moment I opened that door.

Which meant the door had to close. Not permanently. But for now.

I nodded and mumbled my thanks before transferring myself to the chair and finagling a blanket over my chest and lap, even though he’d already seen and touched every inch of my body in every way imaginable. In lieu of trying to answer questions he hadn’t asked, I took the purse with me and went to the bathroom. When I finished there, I went into the kitchen and chugged a bottle of water before returning to the bedroom.

He already had his clothes on, thank goodness. Maybe it didn’t have to be a big confrontation right now, thank goodness. “Have to get to morning skate,” he said.

“And I need to get to work.” No point letting him think he should dawdle.

Dima crossed over and bent to kiss me, but I turned my face to the side, pressing my eyes closed as I did so.

Why did he have to do this now? Why did it have to become more personal, more intimate? Why couldn’t it still be just sex for him?

He’d never tried to kiss me before when he wasn’t trying to get me into bed. That wasn’t how we’d ever been together, at least before now. He was trying to move things to the next level at the same moment when I knew I had to put on the brakes.

This was not going to end well.

His lips briefly met my cheek, but he put a hand on my chin and tugged until I looked up at him.

“What?” he demanded. “Why you won’t kiss me?”

“I think you should go,” I forced myself to say, refusing to let myself get emotional. Now was not the time for that.

“I’m going. Just want to kiss you first.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” And even as the words left my lips, my heart started the painful process of shattering along all the lines where I’d glued it back together again so many times before.

“We can fuck but not kiss?” The all-too-familiar anger was flashing in his eyes, ripping new holes in my heart even as it reopened the old ones.

“We can’t fuck, either. This was a mistake, Dima. I shouldn’t have let it happen. I was upset about Wade, and I tried to forget about it by having too much to drink. And then I tried to forget about it with you. Because you were here. I shouldn’t have done that, but I did, and I’m sorry.”

He stared, incredulous.

I tried to jerk my head out of his hand, but he wouldn’t let go.