Defending Pacer - Hamilton T. J. - Страница 16
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I break from my continuous self-analysis, and automatically revert back to work mode.
“Yeah, I was. So there are some things that have come to light about your investigation.”
“How about we just enjoy each other? All this professional shit can wait.” He pulls my hand to his lips and kisses it gently. “Plus, you wanted to eat first, remember?”
He has me in such a fluster that I forgot I was even hungry. Now I have a different type of hunger —one that’s not going to be satisfied in a restaurant.
“I still don’t know how I feel about all this touchy-feely in public. I don’t want to give the newspapers anymore to talk about. My family would be so upset, and you may lose your case over this.”
Pacer reaches to my cheek, brushing my hair back from my face again. “That’s why we’re here. I’ve paid the staff accordingly to keep this discreet.”
“But what about the other patrons? This is what I mean, Pacer. We have to be careful. The media will blow this story wide open, because it will sell papers. I know how they work. And they pay the public good money for information like this. We can’t just pay everyone off every time we go somewhere together. It’s not that easy.”
He shrugs. “I can afford it.”
“And when you can’t afford it anymore? Then what?”
“Then we’ll just run away and join the circus.” He winks playfully.
“I’m serious. We need to be careful about who sees us together socially. We come from two different worlds. If people see us together on a non-professional level, it will ruin all creditability with your case.”
His left eyebrow rises—just the one. That’s some good brow control. It’s sexy as fuck.
“Are you sure there’s nothing more to your concerns? Why are you here if you’re so worried about your creditability?”
“You’re right. I shouldn’t be here at all, and there is more. Our families know each other, and hate each other. You know how you said you were raised by your Uncle because your father was murdered in prison?” Pacer’s hand slips from my cheek. “Well, my Dad was the one who put him there.”
“Yeah, Carlo told me that.” He doesn’t seem too discouraged by the news.
“So us being in public is a loose decision, both personally and professionally.”
The waiter brings over our wines, breaking the moment between us. “The is a nice torrontes wine from Argentina. All your wines are matched with each serving today.” He places the glasses in front of us.
We both pick our drinks up in unison and take swift gulps, our eyes locking throughout the whole sequence. It’s intense.
I don’t taste the wine. It’s a cold liquid that’s hitting my tongue—that’s the extent my mind is registering beyond my struggle over Pacer.
It’s all but gone by the time I realise the waiter has left us. I put the wine glass down before I crack it from the pressure in my hands.
Pacer, on the other hand, slams his wineglass against the table top. Surprisingly, the glass doesn’t break, but it creates enough of a noise to make me jolt.
The waiter returns with two large plates that have little sectioned pieces of a meal in the centre. Suddenly the situation seems so ridiculous—we’re arguing over life, death and work at a restaurant accessible only by air, and here’s a plate with the tiniest little decorated piece of food? I laugh like I like I always do when I see posh meals that end up looking more like art than food. It’s so pretentious. Why can’t food just be food?
“What’s so funny?” Pacer asks the moment the waiter turns to walk away.
I chuckle as I speak, “Sometimes food just looks ridiculous.”
He starts laughing too, and suddenly the tension in my neck relaxes. I’m here now, so I might as well enjoy the moment for what it is.
I finish the three mouthfuls of the meal before Pacer drops his cutlery down and snatches my hand in his.
“I can’t take this anymore,” he says as he abruptly gets out of his chair, my hand still within his grip.
“What are you doing?”
“Taking you to a house of mine, because you’ve been teasing the fuck out of me for days.”
He grips tight around my hand and leads me out of the restaurant. I grab my handbag quickly as he pulls me. He reaches in his pocket as we pass the waiter’s station and throws a pile of hundred dollar bills on the counter.
“We’ll be back later.”
Holy shit!
CHAPTER TWELVE
Pacer’s leather glove-covered hand grips around mine firmly as he continues to pull me to the top of a road so steep that my breath is non-existent. My feet barely hit ground with each step we make, or at least that’s what it feels like.
We stop at a driveway near the top of the hill. The tree line falls dramatically down the steep embankment. He pulls me with him, and I follow as we cross over wooden decking that leads to the entrance of a very angular, modern-looking house that sits amongst the treetops.
Pacer looks back to me with a wanton glare. I can’t quite distinguish whether he wants to hurt me or pleasure me, but the sexual vapours coming from him make me light-headed. A combination of pleasure and pain is sounding perfect right now. With anyone else, that would be frightening, but with Pacer, it’s fucking arousing.
He makes quick work of the locks, swinging the rich wooden door wide open. His hands grip around the back of my thighs, and he lifts me off the ground and wraps my legs around him. My thighs squeeze tight around his waist.
Fuck, I wish I could feel his gloves against my skin right now.
I do feel something else, though. Holy shit, he is big. Wow, like really big. It sits all the way up to the top of his pants.
I hold my legs around his waist, and my hands slips naturally around his neck. His mouth meets mine and the world melts away. All I need right now is for Pacer to fill every inch of my desires.
My back hits the wall, and Pacer pulls my sweater over my head. He kicks the door shut behind him, and it feels as if a surge of electricity has passed through my entire body. Dropping my bag, it lands with a thud.
Oh Jesus. His tongue. When it hits my tongue, it’s lights up a pathway that sends jolts directly to my pussy.
I want to pull myself together, but my body is screaming to have him inside me, dominating me. My mind too has fallen victim to Pacer and is no longer listening to anything other than my need to fuck the hell out of him.
Dropping my hands from behind his neck, I delicately start to unclasp each of the buttons on his shirt, but he gets impatient and rips the rest with one hand.
I giggle. My skin soaks up his breath every time he presses his lips against me. There’s just one more layer of clothes before our skin is against one another. Fuck you, winter, and your need for layers of clothing!
Thank God he moves his hand under my ass. My leg muscles weren’t doing the job of holding me up like they were supposed to. His fingers brush past my sex. It’s too much.
I flip open the button on my zipper as a hint. He follows the direction easily and puts me down for a moment to rip my jeans down past my thighs. Finally, I feel the smoothness of his leather gloves against my bare skin. It’s as delicious as I’ve been imaging for days. My head tips back in pure ecstasy.
Cold, soft, foreign—it makes me yearn for more. I need all of that leather within me.
As the leather leaves my clit and travels down my leg, I groan out of an equal amount of frustration and impatience, but oh-so-fucking turned on.
Dipping each foot that he lifts, he pulls my ankle boots off and slides my jeans all the way down. His movements are delicate with the right amount of dominance. His lips trail all the way up my leg again. He gets to the inside of my thigh and he pushes his face against my skin, and inhales loudly. I look down as his eyes close, taking me all in. It makes me feel so sexy that he loves my smell.
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