Page 8 of Daring the Bad Boy
“Holy crap!” She jumped back.
His arm wrapped round her waist to stop her falling on her butt.
“I thought you could only hail a cab like that in movies?” she said.
“I used to live on the Lower East Side. Where hailing a cab is a basic survival skill,” he said, the teasing note wonderfully confidential. As if they were lovers, who had just been cast in her favorite chick-flick.
Leaning into the driver’s window, he gave an address she recognized in Clerkenwell. The uber-hip sector of the City of London where cool bars and restaurants, serving everything from sushi to pie and mash, jostled for space with flashy boutiques, sleek new offices and fancy bolt-holes and loft apartments that rarely sold for under a million.
Stinking rich and American, then.
Perhaps the leather jacket was a pose and he wasn’t really that badass?
But then she noticed the scar bisecting his left eyebrow that she hadn’t spotted in the dark bar. He whipped off his jacket and slung it over her shoulders. The smell of leather and the warmth of his body engulfed her, the butter softness confirming her faith in his bad boy credentials.
Stinking rich and American… But absolutely still a badass.
“Come here.” Gripping the lapels of his jacket, he hauled her up to fasten his lips on hers.
The fire smoldering in her belly blazed – burning away the last remnants of her reserve. Not that it had been putting up much of a fight.
She sucked on his marauding tongue and rubbed against the ridge in his jeans. Excitement leapt up her chest as she assessed the impressive package. She wanted to feel him deep inside her. She wanted to be taken, used, and spun into a world of the senses from which there would be no escape. Tonight she could have exactly what she wanted without fearing the consequences. If this guy was a jerk, it didn’t matter, because it would all be over by morning.
“Oy, mate, I’ve got the meter running here.”
Her bad boy studmuffin lifted his head at the shout from the cabbie, but his gaze remained fixed on her mouth as he yelled back. “Okey, dokey, mate.”
The cockney phrase sounded delightfully silly in his gruff American accent. And she giggled. She actually giggled.
He opened the cab door. “Let’s get out of here.”
They climbed in and the cab rumbled away from the curb. But as she reached for him, he captured her hands and drew them down. “Do you have a cell phone?”
She nodded, confused. “In my back pocket.”
He eased his fingers in, taking a moment to caress her butt, before pulling out the phone. “What’s the code?”
“6969,” she blurted, then felt the flush on her neck. “My friend, Tash, programmed it as a joke,” she added, then wished she hadn’t explained the naughty code.
You’re supposed to be a bad girl, you tit-head.
“Uh-huh?” He grinned, sending her a flirtatious side eye. He thought she was kidding.
Did he think she was a badass too? Did he have no idea she was actually a boring good girl in bad girl clothing?
O.M.F.G. How phenomenally cool is that?
He programmed in the code, clicked on the message app, typed something lightning fast with his thumbs, then flicked through her contacts and pressed send. Leaning over her, he slid her mobile back into the pocket of her jeans, taking lots of wonderful liberties en route.
She flattened her palms to his chest, peering up at him. “Who did you text?”
“Your pal, Tash. I’m guessing she’s one of the pick-up line poets in the bar?”
“Yes, but why did you text her?” she asked, confused.
Did he know Tash? Her fuzzy mind tried to connect the dots. The big fat fluffy dots that made no sense now and were starting to intrude on her big fat fluffy sex buzz.
Had Tash set her up? Was Mr. Super-Hot a pity date? Was she about to have her bad girl card revoked?