for a girl like you.”
“Fuck off, okay. Is that clear enough?”
“Or what?”
Shit, with his arm still clamped around her waist he’d somehow managed to propel her past the frontage of the club, to the edge of the deserted car park and suddenly it hit her. Or what? Damned good question.
His clammy hand had tightened around her, the damp warmth seeping through the thin fabric as though it was skin on skin. She was going to be sick. A mix of shots tumbled around in her stomach, hit the bubbles of Prosecco, and mingled with the slightest trace of fear. She swallowed down the tang of bile.
“Just get your hands off me, okay? I’m not your type.”
“Let me be the judge of that, gorgeous.” She would have liked to have slapped that leery smirk right off his face, but keeping her balance in the killer heels and working out whether to knee him in the groin, stamp on his toes or ditch the stilettos and run was priority at the moment.
He pushed her a step back, further into the dark shadows that draped the side of the building. Then his hand closed round her wrist. A band of iron, fingertips digging into her skin as she pulled back, burning. He snorted and the mix of beer fumes and stale cigarette filled her lungs as he leaned in closer. Close enough to kiss. Close enough to make the knot in her stomach pull just a bit tighter, and her heart pound like it was about to burst free.
Think, Georgie, think. She turned her head away as his other hand came up, at the side of her, against the wall, blocking her escape. Not that escape was on the agenda until she managed to drag her wrist free from his grasp. He swayed closer and even with a sideways glance she could see his gaze was fixed on her mouth. If she stayed here a second longer it would be too late. She twisted, bent down, dodged under the arm that held hers, hoping he’d loosen his grip so she could break free, but instead as she ducked he did the one thing she hadn’t expected. Twisted her arm up behind her back. Pressed her cheek hard against the damp, darkness of the wall, until sharp splinters of brick bit into her skin. Georgie shut her eyes.
“Oh, so that’s how you want it is it. Kinky one, eh?” The heat of his breath was fanning her neck, his heavy, suffocating body close against hers, and she was grimly aware of his rock hard erection, pressed against her. “Like it from behind do you?”
Fuck. She had to get away. She just had to. Being groped against a wall was so not how her life was supposed to be working out. She took a breath, opened her eyes, and then kicked back with all her strength, raking her heel down his shin, stamping down hard on his foot for good measure as he loosened his grip slightly. All she had to do was get his hands off her. He was pissed, he wouldn’t be able to run after her.
“Bitch. Christ, what the fuck was that for?” He reached instinctively for his leg with one hand, but it still hurt like hell as she pulled back, dragged her arm from his grasp, feeling the burn of friction, his skin against hers.
There were a whole shopping list of things she could have answered with, but she didn’t trust herself to say a word. Keeping her mouth shut was safer for more reasons than one.
Georgie staggered back, one step, another, turned to run.
“You got a problem?” The deep drawl stopped her short, and she could have sworn literally stopped her heart for a beat.
“A problem? She’s fuckin’ psycho that one, you’re welcome to her.” She hardly felt Seb push his way past her, was only dimly aware of the scatter of stones as he staggered back towards the road, finding a new swear word with each step he took across the rough parking lot.
“I said, are you okay?” There was a guy, and he was staring at her, like she was stupid. She stared back, because she couldn’t not. Dark curls, green eyes, a dimple in the middle of his chin, a stud in his ear. Black motorbike leathers.
Georgie swallowed, cleared her tight, dry throat. Wow. The dark knight. In a parking lot in Cheshire. Stared a bit more. Whatever they were serving in there was stronger than she’d thought. “Sure. Erm, no problem.” Well, only one. Him. And he was the kind of problem she liked. She hoped she wasn’t licking her lips, but she probably was. “I’m fine.” Once I remember how to breath normally again. And work out if I’m hallucinating or not.
She took another steadying breath, to replace the oxygen she’d lost while she’d been holding her breath. This wasn’t a weak chinned, clammy handed type of idiot like Seb. The type who slobbered over you and pawed. Oh, no. This guy was trouble, with a capital T. Otherwise translated as yum, with a capital Y.
“Good. I’ll leave you to it then.”
“No.”
He slanted his head slightly, probably because she’d shouted it out like a weirdo.
“Don’t go. I mean, hang around for a bit, will you?” It could have been a residue of adrenalin from being pinned against that wall, but whatever it was her heart was hammering and her body had this strange buzz resonating through it, and she was pretty damned sure it had nothing to do with fear.
He chuckled and the sound fingered its way down her spine. “I don’t think he’ll be rushing back for seconds. So, are you?”
“Am I what?”
“Psycho.”
“I’ll let you decide that.” She took a step closer to him, which just about took her to the spot where she could smell the mix of spice, wood and musk. Earthy. Nice. “Not that it would bother you, I’m sure.”
“Are you now?” He let her close that gulf of ten inches between them, let her reach out to rest a finger on the top of the zip of his leather jacket. Cold metal against warm, the tang of leather and oil layered over the tantalising scent of pure male.
“Very sure. Can I see your ‘bike?”
He looked faintly amused, but from the way his stance had widened and those gorgeous eyes had darkened she knew she had him. Hers for the taking. But he’d kept his hands jammed in his pockets, like he was determined to make her do all the running.
“And there I was thinking it was me you were interested in.”
“I am. You and the bike, together.”
“You’ll have to promise not to rake those heels down the tank.”
It was then that she recognised him. It was the way he said it, that ever so slight judgemental edge to his voice. Jake Harcourt. He’d been like that when he was cocky sixteen. Daring, in control. Leader of the pack. And she’d been the podgy teenage girl in her carefully ironed blouse and spotless flat shoes. If she’d not had a drink or five maybe she’d have clicked earlier, maybe not. It was a lifetime ago. And he wasn’t a lanky tearaway teenager now. He was a man. Boy, had he grown into a man.
Back then was another time, of schoolgirl crushes, of secret Valentine’s cards being pushed into lockers, of wanting the rough tough poster boys and knowing it was a step too far. Then. Bad had been plain bad back then, now it was good.
“I won’t leave a scratch. I promise.”
He raised an eyebrow and just like that he’d gone from a little bit naughty to full on bad, and Georgie felt her throat dry as the anticipation swirled into a knot of excitement in her stomach.
“No scratches at all?”
The smile twitched at her mouth. “Well, not from the heels. And not on the tank.” She rested the very tips of her nails on his jawbone, let them drag across the rough stubble until they rested under his chin, then she leant in, let her breasts rub against the smooth hide of his jacket, closed her teeth around the fullness of his lower lip and pulled back just far enough so that she could glance up, see the look in his eye.
Jake met the coy look she shot through those long eyelashes and wondered if his luck was in or he’d just gone stark staring mad. He’d kicked up the motorbike from pure frustration, barely paused to grab his helmet, and then gunned into the centre of town looking