Driven By Fate Page 11

  “I—” He shook his head, wondering why honesty only seemed possible for him after the fact. “You were never part of my plans. This wasn’t my plan when I woke up this morning. All I have are plans, Francesca.”

  “Oh, fuck your plans.” She threw a bitter glance toward the empty window. “We’ve all got plans. Plans change and shift and accommodate. Yours aren’t any more special than mine. And mine sure as shit don’t involve you anymore.”

  His laughter was hollow, menacing to his own ears. Just forcing the sound from his throat was a goddamn effort. “Now that…that might have been the plan.” I want to hold you, to wrap myself around you. “Listen to your friends. You should never have become involved with me in the first place.”

  Francesca suddenly looked weary. “That was my choice. So was this. You remember that.” She indicated the bench. “My choice. Just like it was your choice to abuse my trust.”

  She retreated across the room, retrieving her shirt, cell phone, and backpack. His world skewed one way and then the other as he watched. It seemed impossible that this could be the end. He’d asked for it, given her no choice. God, what he wouldn’t give to take back the morning. Take back everything. He didn’t know how to never see her again, despite knowing his tastes and experience surpassed hers, knowing their goals in life were literal oceans apart. Letting her go wasn’t an option, even though he’d spent the afternoon driving her away. You selfish, selfish bastard.

  “This isn’t over.” He kept his face impassive as she spun on him, tears making her eyes shine. No turning back now. “I made a mistake. I think I wanted to show you my worst and have you choose me anyway.” His chest burned a little less as the realization left him. “The fucked up part is, you did. You didn’t answer the phone call. I wish I’d done the same.”

  Her shoulders lifted in an uneven shrug. “It’s too late.”

  “I won’t let it be.” He let his determination show. “I wasn’t prepared for you to accept this, to love it. And you did. Fuck me, you did.” He closed half the distance separating them. “If I’d gone about this the right way, your hips would be slamming against that leather rest right about now. You’d be fucking transcendent, Francesca. You’d be killing me. And I’d be welcoming it.” He managed to stay in place even though her still-present anger had been tempered with arousal, brought forth by his frankness. If he went closer, pushed her against the door now, there was every chance she’d relent and allow him the pissed-off, messy sex they both needed. But it wouldn’t be right. She needed time and he had no choice but to give it, damn his impatience. “Expect me very soon, Francesca.”

  The slam of the door was her only response.

  Chapter Twelve

  Frankie skidded on the asphalt in her rollerblades, kicking gravel onto the sidewalk. The hockey stick in her hands felt heavier than usual, the helmet making her neck sore under the strain to keep her head upright. Sleep, she just wanted to sleep, but she’d always played street hockey with the neighborhood guys on Sundays, a tradition they’d had since middle school. They didn’t care if she’d driven a double shift yesterday. And the day before. If she bailed, they would only call her a wuss, tell her she’d gone soft since starting school full time. As overwhelmed and exhausted as she was just then, she didn’t think she could take even some good-natured ribbing.

  It had been three days since she’d walked out on Porter. No, not walked out. She’d run, put her head down and barreled out of Serve like it was on fire. If she stopped to think—or hell, sleep—she would have to acknowledge what she’d felt in that room. Before he’d purposefully hurt her or made her feel foolish. Before he’d nearly broken her with his hoarse confessions. She’d have to admit how sexually freeing it had been to be the focus of such lust, even if the scene hadn’t really been happening. This girl, the one in the hockey mask and an oversized jersey, was how people knew her. She hunkered down behind the wheel of her cab in a baseball cap and never expressed her femininity. To be thrust into the spotlight and encouraged not only to express that, but also have Porter celebrate it in his own rough way…the situation had been eye opening before it blew up in her face.

  Nothing excused what he did, though, and the more time that passed without him showing up as promised, the angrier she became—at him, herself, and these new cravings that he’d sent roaring to the surface. Someone who valued their pride as much as she did shouldn’t be scoping street corners looking for him or checking her cell phone for missed calls. He didn’t deserve her time or thoughts. Yet he consumed them.

  “Hey De Luca, you awake over there?” Her neighbor from across the street, Greg, broke into her thoughts with his familiar, nasal drone. “Cartwright has more game than you today. You on your period or somethin’?”

  “De Luca don’t get a period,” Cartwright joked.

  The eight twenty-something guys surrounding her broke into laughter. She flashed them all the middle finger. No way would she let them know how much that hurt. Especially coming from Cartwright, who’d been her first kiss. A sloppy first kiss, truth be told, but still. “If I don’t get a period, how come you’re always asking to borrow tampons, Cartwright?”

  Their howling increased and it was her turn to receive the one-finger salute. This was her normal, the life into which she’d woven her orphaned ass as seamlessly as possible. Why did she suddenly feel like a frayed edge?

  Needing a distraction, she slapped the puck toward Greg and the game resumed. Her heart wasn’t in it, though. She didn’t feel the usual need to prove herself, prove she had a right to be there, that she was one of the guys.

  A newcomer from two blocks over sailed the puck in her direction and she lined up for a shot. Just as she reared back with her stick to take aim, a hard elbow rammed her from behind, sending her down onto her knees. The puck went skidding behind the net to a round of boos directed at Cartwright as he skated off, stick resting across his shoulders. It had been a cheap shot, but nothing new. The guys were consistently physical with each other and they made no exceptions for her. They’d started off treating her differently all those years ago, but after she’d delivered a few bruises of her own, they’d knocked off the kid-gloves treatment.

  Ignoring her protesting knees—which would definitely need peroxide and Band-Aids—Frankie gained her footing and rejoined the game—

  Just in time to watch Cartwright run smack into a brick wall and bounce off, flat onto his back.

  No, not a brick wall. Porter. He stood in the middle of their game, black trench coat flapping in the wind. Such an odd detail to notice, but no other part of his forbidding figure moved. His eyes were turbulent. Violent. They were fixed on Cartwright who, showing a lick of sense for once, backed away in an awkward crab walk. One by one, each of the guys slowed on their skates, watching Porter cautiously. Frankie stared at them in disbelief. These childhood friends who never backed down from a fight looked…nervous. Terrified, even.

  It pissed her off, royally. Porter had no right being angry right now. After what he’d done, she had the market on anger cornered.

  When Porter took a step in Cartwright’s direction, hands fisted at his side, Frankie reacted. Whatever irritation she felt could be addressed later, when her friends weren’t at risk of being plowed down by the British enforcer she’d always known lay beneath Porter’s surface. She hid her wince as she removed her helmet and skated forward, throwing herself between Porter and Cartwright. “Hey, monocle man. Hell of an entrance.” His gaze remained focused over her shoulder. A ribbon of alarm floated down from her chest to coil in her stomach. Nope. Not an antique dealer. No way. Right then, he looked fully capable of murder. On her behalf. “Game’s over, guys. See you next week.”

  The sound of wheels scraping over concrete was instantaneous, but one throat cleared behind her. Greg. “You okay with this guy, De Luca?”

  Porter’s considerable arm muscles tensed, warning her that Greg’s physical safety was in question. He started to move past her. No way could she
stop him. With anger making his body whip-tight, he was unstoppable. Throw in the haunted look in his eye and her options whittled down to one. Distract him. She curled her fingers around the lapels of his coat, using her grip as leverage to boost herself up against his body. Kissing him felt like selling out after what he’d done, making her hesitate for a bare second, their mouths a breath apart.

  “I’m so pissed at you,” she whispered. “I want to slap your stupid face.”

  He came back to her in degrees, his gaze clearing little by little. “I was in my car watching you play this absurd game and then you…and he. This is—”

  “—highly irregular, Francesca,” she finished for him.

  A gruff noise filled the scant inch between them. “I need you back. It’s the only reason I haven’t sent that bastard to the emergency room. I gather he’s a friend?”

  She nodded once.

  “Goddammit.” He appeared to focus on his breathing. In. Out. “This is why your knees are scraped? Have you never heard of knee pads?”

  “I left them in the trunk of my cab. My uncle’s friend borrowed it while his is in the shop.” She couldn’t resist a peek at his mouth. Arrogant and full. Close. “I forget them in places pretty frequently.”

  One strong arm banded around the small of her back, plastering her closer. God, his sheer size and power affected her like nothing else. “Did you actually think kissing me would serve as sufficient distraction? When I’ve just seen you manhandled by some bollocks carrying a weapon?”

  “It’s a hockey stick. And yeah.” She gasped as he tightened his hold. “Would it have worked?”

  “Yes.”

  Mad. You’re mad. Oh, but she really had to dig deep to find the outrage. It had been a smart move on his end, leaving her alone for a few days. She’d had no choice but to confront the fact that, while his methods were infinitely wrong, she’d felt something unexpected in that room, deeply seated inclinations she might never have discovered otherwise. With every encounter, every touch, he ruled her a little more. The femininity she’d kept locked away for so long brightened, strengthened. Her anger at him kept getting swept away in those undeniable feelings. But not entirely. Oh, hell no.

  “If you think I’m going to kiss you now that you’ve calmed down, keep dreaming.”

  “I’m anything but calm.” His thumb dug into the base of her spine, in just the right spot, shooting an arrow of pure longing to the flesh pressed against the seam of her jeans. She swallowed a whimper, somehow even more turned on by his cocky head tilt and sympathetic murmur. “I’m prepared to work very hard for the privilege of kissing you again, among other things. Very hard, indeed.”

  “Oh, we’ve entered the innuendo phase?” she breathed.

  “That wasn’t an innuendo. They would hear you screaming in New Jersey if I got you on hands and knees right now.” He hefted her onto her tiptoes. “You’re dressed like a boy, Francesca. Do you need help remembering you’re a woman? I can think of several, creative ways to show you.”

  He hadn’t said it quietly. She heard a slight shift behind her and knew Greg hadn’t left yet. Was it wrong that she reveled in him overhearing Porter’s remarks? Every hormone in her body raced toward Porter’s touch, where their bodies pressed. Standing in her ripped, bloody jeans and a messy ponytail, she’d never felt more wanted. Not in her whole life. Damn him.

  “So I should just forget everything that happened?” She released her hold on his coat. “I should just let you inside my house because you showed up?”

  Misery flashed in his expression before he covered it. He loosened his hold from around her waist and inserted a hand between them. She watched in fascination as he unbuttoned the top three buttons of his shirt and pushed it wide.

  Her blood was still there, smeared across his skin.

  “I’m not sure whose it is anymore, Francesca. It’s all gone sixes and sevens. I feel like I’ve been bleeding for days.”

  Oh…oh god. It took her a moment to formulate a response. Her anger was fast dissipating, far too soon. She tried to reel it back, but her blood on his chest hurt to look at. “I guess that earns you a cup of coffee at least.”

  …

  Porter shook off the nagging, residual rage at seeing Francesca knocked to the ground. The moment continued to replay in his head, determined to drive him to lunacy. God help him, if she weren’t leading him toward her home, glancing up at him with the silver eyes he’d missed to the point of agony, he’d be pummeling the son-of-a-bitch into the pavement. He’d held himself back, though. How? The danger of scaring Francesca, of giving her another look at what lay just beneath his surface, represented the equivalent of ten men holding him off.

  She fumbled with her house key and mumbled under her breath, fidgeted with her hair. Porter stared in amazement. Not possible. She couldn’t actually be nervous. And not nervous in the way that would slay him, either—no fear that he might hurt her or overstep his bounds again. This seemed different. These were nerves a young woman might get when bringing a date home. Jesus Christ. He stood there ready to beg for another chance as her Dominant and she couldn’t even guide a key into a lock.

  “Are you expecting your uncle home soon?”

  Finally, she managed to open the door. “Ahoy, Captain Obvious.” She laughed. “No, actually. He’s at a Jets game. That doesn’t mean you can get it.”

  “Get it.” He followed her into a bright, homey kitchen, complete with white curtains and cutlery hanging above the stove. “Is that some brilliant American phrase I’m not aware of?”

  “It means—” Her explanation cut off off when he came up behind her, settling his hands on her hips. “It means can you—”

  “Push extra deep…” He released a hot breath beside her ear. “Drive us both out of our minds?”

  “Y-yeah.”

  He tucked her backside into his lap, let her feel the erection she’d inspired. “Then yes, I most certainly can get it.”

  She moaned and fell forward, planting her hands on the kitchen table. “I’m not giving in this easily.” Ah, but her ass worked his dick like a paid dancer, grinding on him until he thought he might come in his fucking pants.

  He cupped her hot pussy through the denim. “There’s nothing easy about this perfect part of you. I’ve barely got room to move as it is and then you tighten up on me.” His teeth raked down her neck. “Sweet and petite, aren’t you? All for your lord.”

  Porter unsnapped her jeans, dying, ready to give up everything he owned in this world to be inside of her, but she went stiff. Her drags of oxygen echoed in the kitchen, same as his.

  “Please, I need to go slower. It’s always so fast with you and I have no time to think. I’m so mad at you, Porter.”

  As she should be. Working to rein himself in, he released the snap of her jeans. In the last ten minutes, he’d experienced such vast leaps of emotion, more potent than he’d ever felt in his life. Rage, desperation, lust. As if she’d unlocked something inside him as sure as she’d unlocked the door. Only he didn’t know how to close it again, or if he wanted to. One thing he wanted more than anything was for her to feel safe with him, under no pressure.

  Try not humping her against the first available object, mate.

  He eased away with gritted teeth. “Let’s see about that cup of coffee.”

  “Coffee.” She turned and sucked in a breath at whatever she saw on his face. “I’ll make it Irish and add a little whiskey.”

  “Capital idea,” he muttered.

  She moved about the kitchen using the same grace with which she drove her cab—efficient and yet somehow with great enjoyment. When she’d told him about cooking for her uncle and his friends, he’d pictured her slaving away like some painfully sexy version of Cinderella. He could see now that he’d been wrong. She loved this, doing for others. A piece of her heart resided in that kitchen, another in the cab. Who would claim the rest? A decent man with a blue collar and a respectable bank account who would take her out once
a month on date night. That was her dream. What was he doing here?

  He accepted the mug of coffee she handed him, inhaling the interlacing scent of whiskey and crushed berries, courtesy of Francesca standing so close. Rain started to beat on the roof, although he had no idea when a storm had gathered, hadn’t been aware of anything but her. They hadn’t bothered turning on a light upon entering the kitchen and now the space grew even dimmer, a product of the dark clouds outside. He had to concentrate on not reaching for her, pulling her down onto his lap.

  “You want to come upstairs?” The sound of rain nearly swallowed the husky question. “I’m going to take a shower.” She ran a finger over the blood on his chest. “How did you shower with this? You smell too clean to have gone without.”

  “I put my hand over it.” He demonstrated, very aware of the organ beating double-time beneath his palm. “Like this.”

  “Oh.”

  Porter stood, trying not to crowd her, but it was goddamn hard. His instincts were to overwhelm her senses. To trap. Make demands, not requests. Soon. “I’d…like to come upstairs.”

  “You’re going to snoop through my room while I’m in the shower, aren’t you?”

  “I’m going to make every attempt not to.”

  A smile played around the edges of her mouth. “Liar.”

  Porter watched her bottom lift and sway as they ascended the stairs. She was dressed like a bloody ragamuffin in the dirty white tank top she’d worn beneath the hockey jersey. Argyle socks with a hole in the big toe. What he wouldn’t give to see her in a dress. Immediately, he snatched the wish back. If she started wearing dresses, he’d have a wealth of other concerns on his plate, concerns that were only his for a limited time, until he left. Then he’d be across the ocean without a clue as to what she’d worn on any day or who saw her in it.

  Hoping to distract himself, he focused on the pictures lining the hallway. Francesca was in most of them—younger versions of her with missing teeth, a more recent one of her leaning against a cab, arms crossed, while a man, presumably her uncle, ruffled her hair. Possessiveness tore at him just seeing it. Mine. Don’t touch what’s mine.