to waking up on the ground, head bashed into things, parts of me twisted in the wrong way, a migraine ripping through my skull.
I mean, sure, they came with risks. I could even die, hit my head off the corner of something, aspirate vomit into my lungs, drown in the tub—or in this case, the swimming pool—but I usually got to take my pills and sleep off the migraine, or head to the hospital for bandaging up and some rest as well.
I never had to be woken up and forced into motion.
It was a night for the books, that was sure.
I just needed a shower, some tea, another pain pill, or some of my CBD oil to chase away the after-effects of the seizure, then maybe a couple hours playing my game to escape, so I could get some calm in my brain, then rest.
But then there he was, looming over me, eyes concerned, and that was not a look I figured was common for him. And something about that, about a strong, stalwart sort of man having a small soft spot for someone else's well-being, it made all the fear and uncertainty fall away. All that was left was the budding attraction I'd felt back in his room at his place, his arms around me, offering me whatever I needed to help make me feel better, then just moments later, his hands on me, his gaze moving over me.
Oh, yeah, there was an attraction factor. I wasn't going to try to lie to myself about that.
And wasn't it just perfectly on-brand for me that I was getting all hot-and-bothered for the wrong sort of guy?
That was my pattern, after all.
Starting with Xavier in my junior year who I'd let take my V-card up against the wall of the venue where he'd just done a show with his metal band. I'd been so starstruck that he was actually on a stage under the lights, holding a mic, doing his thing, that I didn't stop to realize he was a druggie with a mean streak.
Then there had been the street artist who'd been a hopeless cheater, the tattoo artist who drank too much, and when he did, he shared intimate details of our sex life with complete strangers, completely humiliating me. I thought I'd shaped up after that, dating a sweet, shy gamer. Turned out he had a crippling gambling habit and stole two grand from me before I caught on.
When it came to men, I was the magnet all the bad choices were drawn to.
But, damnit, why did all the bad ones have to look so good?
I'd tried dating a good guy or two. They fucked like jackrabbits then got pissed when you didn't come.
The bad ones?
Oh, the bad ones fucked you like your whole-body orgasm was what they were living for; they'd die before they finished without giving that to you.
Huck, the arms-dealing biker with the jaw of steel, oh, yeah, I bet he was nothing like I'd ever experienced before.
"Keep looking at me like that, babe, and I'm gonna have to do something about it," he rumbled at me, voice low, deep, far too sexy given the circumstances.
But did I stop looking at him like that?
I was pretty sure I didn't.
And I knew that I wet my lips right before the words—the challenge—escaped them.
"Like what?"
A humming sound escaped him, something that was a cousin to an actual growl, vibrating through his chest as his gaze held mine for one long moment before his hand rose, grabbing the back of my neck, using it to drag me forward until my chest crushed to his.
There was no teasing, no second-guessing his actions.
One second, I was several feet away. The next, I was touching his body from shoulder to knee, and his lips were crashing down on mine.
The kiss, like the man himself, was hard, demanding. His lips bruised into mine. His teeth nipped my lower lip to the point of pain, taking advantage of my gasp, his tongue moving inside to claim mine.
I was needy, breathless.
My hands rose, going around the back of his neck, holding on even as his hands drifted down my back, sank into my ass, dragging me up onto my tippy toes as he ground my pelvis to his, making it abundantly clear he was every bit as lost in the moment as I was. His body was wholly on-board with yanking off my pants, lifting me up onto the counter, and fucking me until we