Untamed (A Bad Boy Secret Baby Romance)(149)

“So is this the part where you flatter me? Say nice things, do your little routine?”

“I really couldn’t give a fuck about flattering you, Pen. I’m just making conversation.”

“Oh, just making conversation, huh?”

“Yes, trying to loosen you up.”

He looks at me, and I feel my indignation flare up.

“Ten minutes ago you were shaking like a wet puppy. I know I’m hot, but there’s no need to be nervous.”

I roll my eyes. “Oh my God.”

But he just smirks.

I’m beginning to dislike him intensely.





Chapter Nine





I want Penny more and more by the second.

The vision of her naked flashes through my mind. I imagine her skin, licking it, tasting her, salty and sweet. She’s got her arms above her head. I’m holding them there, pinning them against the wall. She couldn’t move even if she wanted to. Her legs are closed but I push my knee in between them, force them open, bring it up, make her gasp, make her long for my kiss again, long for every bit of me she can get.

I run my fingers through the buzz of her pubic hair. I hear her breathing, fast and shallow. I see her cheeks, flushed and hot. I look into her eyes, desperate, yearning.

She tells me she wants me to make her come. She tells me she wants me to fuck her until she screams. She doesn’t use words… she doesn’t need to. I know it.

I shake myself out of my imagination.

Penny and I walk to the elevator that will take us to Juice, one of the most exclusive clubs in Melbourne. As the doors slide open, and as she walks into it with me behind her, I devour her ass with my eyes, and catch her scent on the air. She smells great. It’s not perfume or deodorant – I don’t even think she’s wearing any – it’s her.

It was hot in that warehouse, with so many people sitting shoulder-to-shoulder, and all those bright lights. No doubt she was sweating. Being able to smell her is turning me on.

I feel blood pumping into my cock, and when I look in the reflective doors of the elevator, I can see the hint of an outline of myself through my slacks.

And I’m thinking to myself, I hope she notices.

“God, you can feel the bass even in here,” she says. She’s got her patched messenger bag over one shoulder, and is fiddling with the zip nervously.

I meet her eyes in our reflection, but she looks away. I wish she wouldn’t, because looking into her eyes is like opening a channel of energy; it zaps me, makes my heart beat fast, makes me anticipate. Usually I can tell what I’m anticipating, but not with her.

She’s different.

She’s not just falling into my arms. She’s not pressing herself up against me in the lift, grinding her hips against my groin. She’s not biting at my lower lip or sucking on my ear lobe or whispering the things she wants me to do to her in bed. She’s not breathing onto my face, or doing her best to look seductive.

She’s just standing there, closed-off, shoulders drooped, and unenthusiastic. She won’t meet my eyes. She acts like she doesn’t like me, that she doesn’t like what she sees.

It’s clear that isn’t true.

Penelope is nervous, uncomfortable. This is not just her first fight, but her first club. I’d also bet money she’s never been with a boy before.

Odd for a tattoo artist, going by the stereotypes. But then again, she doesn’t seem to fit any. I wonder idly what she’d have to say on that topic.

The elevator doors open, the booming bass greets us, and the flashing lights strobe over us.

She’s out of her element, instantly and impossibly more uncomfortable. She stiffens up. She grips her bag. She picks at the skin of her thumb with her forefinger.

I’m a fighter. I notice people’s hands.

As she steps out of the lift, I place my hand on the small of her back, curl my fingers around her hip. That makes her feel better, I can sense it, but already her eyes are wandering to the dance floor. The girls dancing are sexy, confident, and know how to work their bodies. They’re barely wearing anything at all. Their skin shines.

Her eyes flash to the bar, and she sees half a dozen guys doing shots; they’re loud, boisterous, shouting ‘bro’ at each other and pumping fists and slapping asses. They’re barking and woofing, and Penelope… she is wilting.

Then she turns around, and doesn’t meet my eyes.

“I need to—”

“There’s a balcony on the thirtieth floor of this building,” I say. “It’s private, but I know the security guard and he’ll let us out there.”

She looks into my eyes.

“Tell me what you’d like to drink, and we can go up there, sit down, just you and me. Get away from the music, the crowd.”