Old Ink (Get Ink'd #3) - Ali Lyda Page 0,31

you’re entitled to my time, but you're not. Not even if you bought me some fancy-ass watch I didn’t ask for.

“So let me go ahead and answer your question: I won’t ever go to dinner with you. I am not interested in you and your domineering bullshit.”

A muscle in Trevor’s jaw ticked just before he stepped too close again; his eyes were narrowed and filled with vitriol. “Listen here, you stupid fucking prick. I could have offered you anything you’d want. Instead, you’re acting like an immature little bitch. I spent a lot of money and time on you this week, and you owe me—”

Someone grabbed Trevor’s shoulder and yanked him back so hard he fell to the ground, busting his ass on the pavement. I looked up, expecting a bartender had seen what was happening and had come to my defense—but instead I saw the glimmer of coppery red hair in the streetlight and Reagan’s sharp blue eyes burning with rage.

Trevor started to sputter a protest until he looked up at Reagan’s six feet four height and muscular bulk and thought better of it.

Reagan pointed a finger at Trevor. “Learn to speak to people with respect, or learn how to speak through a mouth missing a few teeth. You hear me?”

They were about the same age but in that moment, they were worlds apart. I wasn’t sure how I’d ever imagined that I could satisfy myself with Trevor. Reagan looked as though he wanted to tear Trevor apart, but he was solid. His voice was even. He was in control.

Trevor looked like he might piss his pants. “Yeah, man. I hear you.”

Reagan didn’t wait for him to stand up. He grabbed my wrist and tugged me toward the parking lot, and I swore I could hear the grinding of his teeth. My heart was fluttering like a moth near a light in my chest, the rush of adrenaline from Trevor and the roar of blood in my ears from being near Reagan like this overwhelming my senses.

Some part of me was clamoring to be angry with Reagan who, like Trevor, had shown up unannounced. As if neither expected me to be able to be out on my own. But damn, the muscles in Reagan’s neck and shoulders bulged, and he looked so massive next to me, seething with a passion I’d never seen before. A passion all for me.

Desire pooled in my stomach, and I felt my cock twitch in my pants.

“What are you—” I started, but Reagan whirled to face me, his body brushing mine. I felt the air from his rapid exhalations as he tried to cool down. The tension that rolled off him made him so stiff and hot that I wanted—no, needed—to break him.

“You,” he growled, “should have better taste in men.”

The anger in me managed to latch onto that, flaring. He knew how I felt about him, and fuck, I was certain he had feelings for me, too. Ones that he didn’t look like he’d be able to ignore for much longer.

“Are you kidding me? You’re so goddamned stubborn! My taste in men has always been you, asshole,” I shot at him, glaring at his strong, handsome face. He was so beautiful it hurt.

He inhaled sharply then snarled, “Exactly.”

Reagan grabbed my hair, twisting it in his grip, and kissed me hard. It was a punishing kiss, his lips meeting mine with bruising force. I embraced it like the shore embraces an ocean swell, letting it rush over me. Consume me.

My lips parted and his tongue delved in, claiming my mouth. I reached around his waist, clawing at his shirt and back to bring him closer. There was no way in hell I was going to let him get away this time. He leaned me against the nearest car, crushing me with his weight, and I’d never felt happier. I groaned, nipping at his lip and hooking a leg up and around his waist. Our cocks, both hard as steel, ground against each other through our jeans. The rough material and feel of his length made me ache for more.

Reagan bit my lower lip then sucked it, his tongue tasting and seeking, and I opened for all of it, grinding myself against him. Yes, my body cried. Please, my heart pleaded.

If I could have frozen time, I would have, letting this kiss with all its aggression and passion last forever. But we were in a parking lot, which was not conducive to magical romantic moments—and