Playing Dirty

CHAPTER THREE (#ua9bdc36d-b843-5838-8e5f-eff5d1fa8dea)

THE SURFACE OF the bar was sticky beneath his hand as Ford placed his whiskey glass back down. It was his second of the night, and he felt like he needed to indulge in at least one more, just to get his head back on straight.

He’d been feeling off center ever since the interlude with a certain little mechanic that afternoon. Damned if he could entirely understand why.

“One more?” Even in the dingy bar that was connected to the equally dingy motel he’d had no choice but to book a room in, the bartender who approached him was still more his type than the woman who’d laid into him about responsibility that afternoon. Tall and slender, with icy-blond hair and a neat sleeveless blouse, she more closely resembled the women he dated back in the city.

Neat. Proper. Nice.

He considered for a moment, contemplated indulging some of this frustration in a flirtation with the blonde. Maybe it would lead to a nice dinner and some equally nice sex.

Before he could consciously decide, his hand covered his glass. “Not right now, thanks.”

There was a flicker of disappointment in the blonde’s eyes as she nodded and walked away, and Ford cursed himself. That was the kind of woman he should be attracted to.

Curvy mechanics with rainbow-bright ink snaking over their pale skin didn’t belong in his life. Not even for a night. And not because of that brightness...but for other, darker reasons.

Settling back on the stool where he’d been seated since the need to escape the shabby motel room had clawed at his skin, Ford blocked out the thunderous music from the old-timey jukebox and allowed his mind to pull up the image of her—of Beth Marchande.

Nothing about her made sense.

She moved like she couldn’t care less about anything but was quick to speak up when she had something to say. Confident—she was quietly confident, owning her curves in a way that stick-thin women he knew back home didn’t seem capable of.

Her hair, in that long, thick braid, was midnight black up top and twisted with bright purple below. Purple...what kind of woman had purple hair?

And yet he couldn’t stop imagining it wrapped around his fist as he thrust into her.

Jesus. He needed to get a grip or he’d embarrass himself in the middle of this dive bar.

He’d been in her presence for less than an hour, and yet he already knew he’d never forget her. She was too vibrant to ever be erased.

“Forget about it.” He’d fucked it up that afternoon by being an asshole, he knew that. It would be best to signal that sweet blonde bartender and order another drink, to forget all about Beth Marchande of Marchande Motors.

But damn it...when she’d stood there, hands clasped submissively in front of her? When she’d issued that invitation, had said she liked being told what to do, while he could just make out the outline of a barbell piercing her right nipple, pressed against the tissue-thin fabric of that skimpy shirt?

She’d pierced right through to the core of his basest desires, the ones that he tried with an iron fist to keep locked away and buried.

Lots of men with his power, his position, indulged in all sorts of hedonistic things, and he didn’t judge them for that. But after seeing his father go through wife after girlfriend after mistress, treating them all like his possessions?

As far as Ford was concerned, nice men didn’t have the urge to tie their women up. Didn’t have their palms tingle with the need to redden white skin, to leave a mark of mastery.

The tattooed little mechanic made every one of those latent desires come roaring to the surface, threatening to boil over.

That just wouldn’t do.

And yet here he was. He hadn’t been willing to be far away from the Turbo, sure, but that wasn’t the only reason that, instead of calling a car to take him home, he’d taken a room in the one small motel he’d been able to find close to the shop.

The woman had hooked him. He was interested, even if he didn’t want to be.

Bad idea, Ford. Very bad idea.

“Excuse me?” Lifting his head, Ford raised his hand to signal for the bartender again. He’d have that third drink, and then he’d go take a long, cold shower. He’d work from his motel room until his car was ready, and then he’d go, as fast and as far as he could.

Out of reach of temptation.

The volume of the music increased with the next song, something slow and sultry that he didn’t recognize. Down the length of the vinyl-covered bar, a large young man wearing work boots stumbled onto a stool and slapped a fiver down. “I need a beer, Sallie, and I need it now. There’s one hell of a show goin’ on over there, and I’m thirsty.”

“Coming right up, Ned.” Ford watched as Sallie—the cool blonde—slid a longneck across the bar to the rough-looking man. The bartender then leaned against the length of covered wood, looking off in the direction the man had come from, and the man looked that way, too. Both seemed to be settling in to watch a show.

Ford followed their gaze, and lust was an instant, heated punch to the gut.

His sexy little mechanic was on the dance floor, and she was working it.

Torn, faded jean shorts cut off high on her shapely thighs, barely covering an ass that was curved enough for a man to get a good grip on it. A white lace camisole on top revealed enticing flashes of skin as well as a black bra that held her full breasts up nice and high.

Black leather boots with high spiked heels wrapped the length of her calves and all the way over her knees. He could imagine her with nothing but those boots on, hands clinging to his headboard as he moved, hard and fast, between sweetly spread thighs.

She was gorgeous. Not his type at all, with the crazy hair and the tattoos spilling over her collarbone and arms. But on her, it worked. He shifted uncomfortably and noted that it seemed to work just fine for him, too.

“Damn.” Ford couldn’t hold back the groan as Beth shifted, stepping into the light, and he realized that she wasn’t alone. No, she had a woman at her front, a man pressed to her back and her eyes closed, her expression dreamy as she rocked between the two bodies, every movement sensual and sure.

The man behind her was dark and swarthy, and Ford might have thought to be jealous if he hadn’t been so fascinated with the way the man fisted Beth’s hair and pulled her head back. What he’d seen of her today said that she’d protest being forced to do anything, but her lips, shiny with red gloss, opened with a moan that he couldn’t hear but that resounded in his head regardless.

The woman in front of her, a redhead in a tight dress, rubbed her breasts against Beth’s own. Ford shifted on his stool, his cock hardening fully as the woman dipped her head and licked a slow trail down Beth’s neck.

Damn.

As if he’d spoken out loud, Beth’s eyes fluttered open. Lifting her head, she looked across the bar, over to where he sat, aching...and right into his eyes.

Earlier today her eyes had been the color of the afternoon sky, but now they were sapphire fire, the flames licking along his skin. His gut tightened as she smiled lazily, then slowly, sensually disengaged herself from the tangle of limbs.

Behind her, the couple continued their dance, but Ford didn’t care—his eyes were on the woman who was crossing the room toward him with slow, deliberate undulations of her hips.

“Fancy meeting you here, Sir Lassiter.” She stopped well into his personal space, and that vanilla perfume made his mouth water and his jaw clench.

“Sir?” He arched an eyebrow and tried really hard not to do what he wanted, which was to reach out and place his hands at her waist, to slide her shirt up and feel the warmth of her skin beneath.

“Mmm, you seem like a sir.” Beth smiled and inched closer, stepping right between his spread thighs. He felt his expression darken—she knew exactly what she was doing, what she was asking for.

“What makes you say that?” His instincts told him to tug her flush against his body, to press her to him so she could feel exactly what she was doing to him.

He did not.

“You seem all proper and noble...like an aristocrat. A knight. Sir Lassiter.” Beth nudged forward just a whisper, and he felt the curve of her hip press into his inner thigh.

His mouth went dry.

“Like you’re trying so hard to do what you think is right. But tell me something.” Tilting her head back, she looked up into his eyes, searching. “Why is denying yourself something that you want, that we both want, the right thing? I know you feel it, too.”