Rebel (Renegades #2)(18)
Author: Skye Jordan

She pulled out of the kiss, breathless, and pressed her forehead to his jaw. “Wes…God…”

He eased his hand beneath the fringe covering her ass. Slipped one finger under the edge of her thong and traced the path between her ass cheeks. He touched her sweet, sensitive pucker, and Rubi gasped, her head pushing harder against his jaw.

A whimper floated from her mouth. He lifted his free hand to her lips. “Suck my fingers.” Her lids lifted, exposing lazy, fiery green eyes before her lips parted and she took two fingers into her mouth. Wes’s c**k strained at the site. At the feel of her stroking tongue, the heat of her mouth. “That’s it. Get them good and wet.”

He pulled his fingers from her lips and traded the position of his hands on her body, sliding beneath her thong to tease her ass with his wet fingers. Rubi’s eyes closed, teeth clenched and her head laid back against his shoulder.

“God that’s so sweet.” He wanted to explore, push her very tight boundaries here, but forced himself to ease his hand deeper between her legs, and found her opening, slick and hot.

He closed his teeth gently over the skin at the base of her neck and groaned with all his ferocious need.

“Oh my…” Rubi’s God muffled beneath Wes’s mouth as he kissed her.

He stroked her with heavy hungry fingers. Lightened his touch and teased her. And finally broke the kiss to gather air, his lungs as tight as his cock.

“I want to f**king eat you alive.” His voice was raspy, and his slipping control made him rough as he pushed one finger inside her.

Her quiet throaty sound of surprise and pleasure pushed Wes higher. Pillowy soft. Searingly hot. He stroked her walls, twisted his wrist and found the small swell of her G-spot.

“Fuck…Wes…”

He withdrew, added a finger, and teased her opening again.

“Wes…” she complained, her hips rocking back and into his touch.

He teased her with shallow thrusts. “Come and get it, baby. Rock that body.”

Her hips picked up a thrusting rhythm and Wes held his hand firm, letting Rubi pump herself toward the peak while he sucked at her lips, swirled his tongue with hers. And when her movements grew quicker, a little frantic, when the sounds from her throat grew higher in pitch, he met her thrusts, rubbing his knuckles over the small swell of her G spot. Lowering his other hand to her mound, he pressed his mouth to her neck and reveled in the moment—something he’d dreamed of for months.

“Oh f**k…” she cried as her body squeezed his fingers so hard she immobilized his hand. She clutched his hair and trembled in his arms. He covered her moans with his mouth, wrapped the hand on her mound around her waist to steady her and pulled her body into his rhythm to simulate dancing.

When her sounds of pleasure faded and she grew heavy in his arms, he pulled from her body and raised his hand to slide a finger wet with her juices down her neck.

When her eyes fluttered open, he murmured, “Next time…”—he lifted his hand to his mouth and licked her taste from his fingers—“I’m going to do this all again—with my mouth.”

He turned her, wrapped an arm securely around her waist and walked her off the dance floor. Settling her in the corner of a sofa, he ordered her another drink from the passing waitress. He leaned down and kissed her forehead, then her lips. “This is just the beginning, baby.” He kissed her once more. “I’m leaving. Keep an eye on our little Rachel, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Six

Rubi’s sandals clicked along the viaduct’s cement and echoed among the intermittent grunts and laughter coming from one of the many control rooms beneath the Sixth Street Bridge.

She stepped into the monolith’s shadow and sighed with relief. They were experiencing one of those Indian summers in Los Angeles, and Rubi had broken a sweat between her car and the cave-like cement rooms where the Renegades were shooting this morning’s fight scene. She’d finished up the bulk of the crash app this morning and wanted to start on the fight app as soon as she finalized the coding for the other. Taping and pulling apart their fight scenes was the first step to that end.

Pausing before stepping inside the building, Rubi glanced behind her, down the length of the cement channel where filming gear cluttered the view. Beyond, she spotted her car in the crew lot. She’d been hoping the sight of her escape would settle her. Maybe…empower her. But it only intensified her urge to run.

She pulled out the note Wes had left on her windshield this morning and reread it.

I’M STILL RUNNING A FEVER.

LITTLE HELP HERE?

A brief smile played over her lips, but apprehension tugged it away. Her most basic instincts knew starting something ongoing with him was a mistake. And she shouldn’t have let the music, the alcohol and Wes carry her away last night. But that man was as good with his hands as he was with his mouth. And she’d felt the size of his c**k against her ass. Wes Lawson had ‘lethal consequences’ written across his forehead.

Yet he had a way of instilling a strange kind of hope, an irrational sense of security. As if some of his goodness or optimism might rub off and magically fix her. Or maybe it was a sense that he might truly be grounded or balanced enough to take on her issues without getting scarred.

Yet at the same time, he was clearly as much of a reckless rebel as she was, as demonstrated by him rocking her world on the busiest dance floor in Los Angeles.

No, it wasn’t unheard of. Stilettos could get rowdy…and raunchy…even in the main area. But public displays of affection had never been her thing, let alone climaxing with hundreds of people around. Hello, that was one of the reasons she didn’t have sex at Stilettos. And why she didn’t play with more than one sexual partner at a time. Just because she’d always been overly sexually active didn’t mean she was also a sexual radical.

But she had to admit, Lawson’s show of insane confidence on the dance floor had delivered an overwhelming sense of personal power and sexual freedom. The fact that Wes could do that for her was as electrifying as it was terrifying. Because she craved more.

And she’d never before craved more.

She’d been with her share of men—not as many as she let others believe she’d bedded—but plenty enough to draw the conclusion that a truly gifted lover was more rare than virtue in Hollywood. And calculating the odds of finding a talented lover who was sincerely dedicated to pleasing a woman—in Los Angeles, no less—would screw statistics for all time.