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And I know I’ve pushed him beyond the ability to think straight, for the next moment, the world tilts.
I yelp, for he’s bent his knees, wrapped his arm around my thighs and thrown me over his shoulder.
My hair flows down, blocking out my line of sight, and when he begins to stalk forward, my breasts bump into the hard expanse of his back. My skirt rides up and cool air assails my upper thigh. Ohmigod. Ohmigod. He’s carrying me over his shoulder in front of everyone. Like he’s some neanderthal and I’m the woman he’s dragging to his cave.
My cheeks feel like they're on fire. And it’s not only from the blood which has rushed to my face. My scalp tingles. My skin feels too tight for my body. This is so embarrassing. So mortifying. But it’s also primal and exhilarating and…
No, no, no, how can I think of it like that? I seriously can’t be turned on, though my soaked panties say otherwise. This is the antithesis of every feminist principle I’ve ever believed in.
"What are you doing?" I cry.
He doesn’t answer. Just keeps moving.
My cross-body bag with my phone is caught between my stomach and his upper chest. I bury my fists into the unforgiving muscles between his shoulder blades, then hiss. Pain shivers up my arm. Incredible. It’s like I’m beating my fists against a brick wall. Or the side of a mountain. The man’s super-built. And the way his muscles flex under his skin, every dip and roll of which I feel against my own, it’s as if we’re already melded into one organism.
And the fact that I’m so intimately close to him, and that my blood feels like it’s turned into a crimson tide of desire, and every cell in my body seems to have opened up and is absorbing his nearness, makes me so pissed off with myself.
I lock my fingers together, raise my joined-up fists and bring them down on the slope of his back.
He must feel something, for he tenses. Then, his big palm connects with my butt. A sharp pain squeals up my spine.
What the—! "Did you spank me?" I yell.
In reply, he smacks my other arse-cheek, and the first and the next. With each slap, my backside quivers, and the pain zooms straight to my cunt. Moisture drips out from between my legs, and I have to squeeze my thighs together. Then, he places a possessive palm over my butt and gently squeezes.
Instantly, the hollow sensation between my thighs curls in on itself.
A groan spills from my throat. I bite down on my lower lip to avoid making any further noise. How can I be so aroused? I should be worried I’ve lost every shred of pride I had, but I can’t bring myself to care for that. All of my attention is focused on the throbbing heavy flesh between my legs.
My silence must satisfy him, for he keeps moving forward.
I assume the crowd dispersed, for he carries me toward the exit without stopping. The warmth of his big palm over my butt reminds me he hasn’t removed it yet. It’s a declaration of his possession to the world.
I sense him walking up the short incline which leads onto the sidewalk. When he comes to a stop, I open my eyes, just as he wrenches open the front door of his car. He throws me down in the passenger seat.
The man carried me nearly a hundred yards over his shoulder and he’s not out of breath. And I’m not slim, by any means.
The blood rushes away from my face, and my head spins. It's a good thing I'm sitting. Or maybe it’s because his scent of woodsmoke and pine is in my nostrils. I feel like I’m surrounded by his presence in this car.
Without looking at me, he pulls my seatbelt across my chest, and when his knuckles brush against my pointed nipple, I shiver. He fastens my seatbelt and straightens, then shuts my door.
Knox walks over and talks to him. I hear the low murmur of their voices, before Quentin walks around. He shrugs on his T-shirt, then opens the door and slides into the driver’s seat.
I should get out of the car. I should leave, call Zoey, who I'm sure would be happy to come back and get me or call my sister. I should do anything but go home with a man who just carried me like a sack of potatoes. But as much as I'm furious, I don't want to leave. I want to fight him because it will keep me in his blue gaze.
I turn on him. “How dare you carry me out of there like that?”
He places those thick fingers of his on the steering wheel and stares at me.
“Nothing to say for yourself? Do you realize how humiliating that was?” I burst out.
He inclines his head. “If I touched you between your legs, would I find you wet?”
I gape at him. “How?… What?… Why?… Why would you say that?” I sputter.
“Answer the question, Raven.”
I open my mouth, then shut it. I could lie and say I’m not. But somehow, I can’t bring myself to lie. So instead, I point at my head. “I’m blonde.”
