Fierce Dancer (Sierra Pride Book 5) Read online

  She stared back at him, and when he glanced down, he could see her nipples taut through her purple t-shirt. Her breasts looked small. Perfect. What color was her bra? He hoped it was lacy.

  “Can I see your room?” he asked.

  Her hands fluttered at her sides. “Oh, um, sure.”

  He followed her to where she paused in the doorway. He could smell her arousal, and damn she smelled better than any woman he’d ever met, by far. It wasn’t perfume or laundry detergent—it was something so her he would never be able to adequately describe it. His cock was instantly straining against his zipper. He inhaled again. She smelled like rain in the desert, and like the vanilla and butterscotch scent of a Ponderosa Pine.

  It was impossible to resist her, with the scent of her arousal invading his senses and the way she kept looking at him, like he was a present to be unwrapped. This was insane—he’d met her only minutes before. Still, he bent down and pressed a kiss against her lips.

  She gasped, opening her mouth to him, and he dipped his tongue in, tasting her.

  Whatever he’d done with women before—and he’d done a lot with women before—it was nothing like what he was doing now. Everything that came before this felt like it had happened long ago, and everything that came before this seemed to have brought him to this one, singular place—holding Emma. Being held by Emma.

  Gathering her closer in his arms, he deepened the kiss. His hands were already sliding beneath her shirt. “I want to see you and feel you,” he murmured.

  She stood on tiptoe to whisper in his ear. “Aren’t you worried you’re misreading the situation?”

  He inhaled sharply. She smelled so fucking good. “Not really. But…am I?”

  She smiled and extricated herself from his embrace. “Maybe we should get something cool to drink.”

  Women rarely pulled away. Shit. He’d have to up his game. But although she hadn’t said hell yes, let’s do this, she also hadn’t said see ya, either. Quentin had a chance at least.

  He followed her taut ass back to the living room and waited while she went into the kitchen.

  “I have beer and…beer,” she called.

  “First option,” he said with a grin. “Definitely.”

  She strutted back into the living room with two beers. Her brow furrowed while she pushed aside some magazines on the coffee table until she found a bottle opener.

  “Thanks,” he said after she handed him his beer.

  She curled up in one corner of the couch, so he took the other corner.

  “So what brings you to Reno?” she asked.

  “Work,” he said. “You?”

  “Same. What do you do?”

  “I drive people around. Sometimes I find people.” He grinned. He’d found her, all right. He wasn’t misreading shit—she wanted him just as bad as he wanted her. The waitress in the diner, the one he’d been thinking about earlier that day—he couldn’t even remember her face, much less her body. No other woman compared to this sexy redhead, and he could tell Emma had a sweet side, too. Her smile was outwardly confident, but there was a shyness and a kindness there, just beneath the surface.

  She stretched out on the long couch, and her bronze-painted toenails were only six inches from his thigh. He took one of her feet in his hand and looked at her to see what she would do.

  “You have a foot fetish?” she asked, but she didn’t pull away.

  “Nope. Just want to touch you. Is that okay?”

  She took a sip of her beer, so he did the same. She seemed to make a decision, and her green eyes sparkled with mischief. “Yeah, that’s okay. But you should be fair, and touch yourself, too.”

  His cock hardened, and he gave her a reproachful look. “You’re a bit naughty, aren’t you?”

  “Maybe a little.” She swigged more of her beer. “I need another one. You?”

  “I’m good, thanks.”

  When she returned from the kitchen, she opened her beer on the coffee table, but the foam started erupting out the top.

  “Shit,” she said, looking around in panic.

  Quentin looked for a towel or something to mop up the foam that was spilling over the side of the bottle, but he couldn’t find anything. Laughing, Emma leaned down and took the bottle in her mouth, like she was giving it head.

  He grinned, and she gave him a sexy look.

  “Yeah, you are naughty,” he said.

  When she sat back down on the couch, she was much closer to him than before. He leaned over and tilted her chin toward him with a finger. He stared into her green eyes, and he realized, with a pang, that he only wanted to look at her like this, at Emma. He didn’t need quick fucks with random women, he didn’t need one-night stands. He needed this woman, here, and from the way her lips parted slightly and her eyes closed halfway, he could tell she wanted him, too.

  “Am I misreading the situation now?” he asked.

  Giggling, she pulled back and yanked her shirt over her head.

  Her tits were encased in a lacy, peach bra. He traced the scalloped edge along the top with one finger, and she shivered.

  “I’m going to make love to you,” he said. “And I might fuck you after. How do you feel about that?”

  In answer, she kissed him again, hard, before pulling back and saying, “I feel great about that.”

  “Bedroom?” he asked.

  Her voice was a breathy whisper. “Yeah.”

  They stopped in her bedroom doorway. He pressed her against the frame, lifting her hands above her head and capturing them. Bending slightly, he licked along the edge of her bra, dipping his tongue between the fabric and her skin, tasting her. Sweet, salty.

  She moaned, writhing against him, pushing herself up against his cock. The friction intensified and he was going mad, unable to think clearly, only knowing he needed to get as close to her as possible.

  After pulling off her jeans, he dipped a hand into her panties. Fuck, they even matched her bra. He pulled back to look at her, holding fast to her arms above her head. Her eyes were half-closed, her pale skin pink with desire.

  She broke free of his hold, and he was too surprised to force her back into position. She pushed his leather jacket from his shoulders and took off his shirt. Then she yanked his pants down, flashing him a wicked smile when she saw he was going commando. He hardly bothered with underwear since it was always getting lost when he shifted.

  He allowed her to push him onto the bed. It smelled divine, just like her.

  “Usually I’m on top,” he said.

  “Not with me, baby.”

  Still in her bra and underwear, she climbed on top of him and rocked against his erection. He groaned, grabbing at her breasts, tweaking her nipples through the lace. With one quick move, she was leaning to the drawer on her nightstand. She came back with a condom, which she stretched over his cock.

  “Are you ready?” he asked. “Because I can give you head—”

  “Shh.” She pulled her panties to the side and then she inched over his cock, encasing him. Her eyes fluttered shut.

  He touched her cheek, the pale blush of her skin, as she moved over him with a grace that surprised him. “Oh, right, you’re a dancer,” he said. “I can tell.”

  Opening her eyes, she gave him a flirtatious grin. “Maybe sometime I’ll dance for you.”

  He’d never been into ballet, but Emma just might convert him.

  She was dancing for him now, even if she didn’t see it that way. She moved in rhythm to a song that nobody could hear except the two of them.

  Her breaths were getting faster, and she tucked a hand against her mound, her fingers moving.

  Finally, he understood. Whatever her experiences before, she was used to guys not taking care of her, guys who took their own pleasure and didn’t reciprocate.

  “You don’t trust me,” he said. “Let me.”

  She stopped moving and stared at him doubtfully.

  “If it doesn’t work, I’ll get you off after, I promise.” With
that, he sat up and pulled her against him, onto his lap. Her legs were still wrapped around him, those long dancer’s legs, and her tits were so close to his mouth, in that intoxicating lace, that he had to take a few deep breaths so he wouldn’t blow everything right there.

  Scooting forward on the bed, he kept her in his lap and pushed deeper inside, all the way in so that the base of his cock rubbed against her. She threw her head back and ground against him.

  “Is that going to work?” he asked, giving a couple of quick, experimental thrusts. “Talk to me.”

  “It’s…it’s perfect,” she gasped.

  He took her to the edge that way, waiting until she started to tense up, and then slowing down again. The third time he did this, she nearly sobbed against him. “Please!”

  He captured her mouth with his, twining tongues, tasting her pleasure and desperation. This time when she tensed up, he thrust harder and faster. “Please,” she gasped, “please.”

  Everything built inside him. Making sure he was still pushing against her clit as he thrust into her, he went faster. Suddenly, she pulsed around him, crying out. Her fingers dug into his shoulders and he kissed her harder while he pumped. The way she squeezed him pulled everything out and he groaned her name as he emptied.

  The two collapsed, with her on top of him, still holding him inside her.

  He had nothing to say. It had been singularly the most meaningful and pleasurable experience of his entire life. If she let him stay another half hour or so, he was going to try to do it again.

  *

  He woke next to Emma when it was still dark. She was curled against him, her lips swollen with his kisses, her hair mussed from the various positions they’d tried over the past few hours.

  “I’ve never stayed the night with anyone before,” he murmured, kissing her hair.

  “Usually I don’t allow sleepovers,” she said. “Not anymore. Too many bad decisions.”

  A surge of affection flowed through him, and he stroked her shoulder. “This felt like a really great decision to me.”

  He could see her better in the dark than she could see him, and he watched her eyes widen. She clambered off of him and rolled over. He faced her, grabbing her hips to bring her closer. But when he pressed his face toward hers for another kiss, she held up a hand. “Look, this was super fun.”

  Super fun? It had been fucking magical.

  “But obviously you can’t be my roommate. So we can exchange numbers, or not, or whatever. But you’ll have to find somewhere else to live.”

  The post-sex bliss had been a smolder, and she’d doused it with a few words. “Wait, what? I don’t want to be your roommate. I didn’t even know you were looking for a roommate.”

  She scrambled to the edge of the bed. He thought of making her stay close, but he didn’t want to freak her out.

  She pointed a finger at him. “You mean you’re not here about the apartment? Nathaniel didn’t send you?”

  He laughed, but even he could hear how false it sounded. He stood up and started putting on his clothes. It was easy to see when he wasn’t wanted. “No. I’m here because you have a friend in California who’s worried about you. Hera doesn’t know what to think but I know she’s tried to get in touch numerous times, so stop being a shit friend and call her back.”

  The last thing he wanted to do was walk away from this woman, but she was giving off major “get out” vibes. He had plenty of experience with not being wanted by one pride or another—he didn’t need to invite that kind of rejection into matters of the heart or—shit. Was this thing with Emma a matter of the heart?

  No, he told himself. He didn’t have a heart.

  “This is Hera’s new number.” He scrawled the digits on the back of an envelope sitting on the nightstand. “I’ll see myself out.”

  four

  Emma dialed the phone number she’d written down after listening to the voicemail of another potential roommate. The woman had a whine in her voice that would probably drive Emma completely insane, but she needed a roommate and maybe sanity was overrated anyway.

  Maybe she should have asked Quentin if he was in the market for a roommate. Already she felt bereft, wondering how she could have let him go this morning.

  She’d told him it was “super fun,” but actually, last night had been the best sex of her life. And while she had no problem with women owning their sexuality and fucking whoever they wanted no matter how well they knew them, Emma usually needed more than five minutes to warm up to a man. But Quentin—that had been different. He had been different.

  The call went straight to voicemail, and Emma hung up without leaving a message.

  Another phone number lay nearby, scrawled on the envelope next to her bed. Hera. Crap. Emma missed her fiercely, but she didn’t know what to say to her. “Yes, I fucked up at the auditions because I slept with the producer’s husband, but Hera, I swear I didn’t know he was married,” sounded pretty weak, even to her.

  Gods, she’d thought she’d loved that bastard. They’d hooked up right after she got to Nevada, and it had been bliss while she trained with the company. During the day she would prepare for auditions and then in the evenings she’d sneak away to be romanced by Ted. She hadn’t even known he was connected in any way to the company or the producer, until the producer followed them both to Emma’s apartment to confront them.

  Thus ended her hopes of becoming a ballerina. Emma had gone to the auditions, but it had been a disaster—waves of hatred came from the higher-ups, and even the other dancers. She’d performed her heart out to the unimpressed silence of everyone in the company.

  She hadn’t been able to bear trying another company after that.

  After a performance in middle school, Hera had come forward out of the audience. While Emma’s mother was talking to the choreographer to find out exactly what Emma had done wrong, Hera was all smiles. She shoved a grocery store bouquet into Emma’s hands and said, “You were marvelous. You’re the best dancer in the world.”

  And when they graduated from high school, and Emma confessed she was leaving town to both get away from her mom’s influence and find a company to join, Hera had said, “I have mad faith in you. You’re going to do this.”

  “What if I disappoint you?” Emma had asked. “My mom won’t even talk to me.”

  “You? Disappoint me?” Hera had shaken her curly, dark hair, and her blue eyes flashed with conviction. “Not even possible. You’re going to be a star, and people will pay to see you dance.”

  By “people will pay to see you dance,” Emma was pretty sure Hera hadn’t meant “lonely men will throw dollar bills on the stage.” Hera’s faith had been so strong, how could Emma tell her how mistaken she’d been?

  She couldn’t tell Hera; she couldn’t bring herself to do it. And even worse would be calling Hera and lying about it. They’d been friends since third grade—even if Emma could pull off a convincing story, and even if Hera didn’t hear the falsehood in Emma’s voice, Emma couldn’t live with herself. Better to lose touch with Hera, for now.

  She stuffed the envelope in a drawer and got up to do her warm-up stretches. She didn’t have to dance for a few hours, but the stretches kept her limber and in shape.

  Before she got far into her routine, her doorbell chimed. She told her traitorous heart to shut the hell up, that there was no way it was Quentin.

  Peering through the peephole, she saw that it indeed was not Quentin. A skinny guy with a pointed nose stood in front of her door. She tried to mentally stomp on her disappointment. “Who is it?”

  “It’s Ryan. Um, Nathaniel’s friend?”

  The entire time Ryan checked out the apartment, Emma tried not to think about Quentin. When she led Ryan down the hall, she felt herself blush at the sight of her door frame. The damn door frame was turning her on, because of Quentin.

  Ryan visibly stiffened when he walked into the second bedroom. “It’s so small,” he said. “And is that mold? I’m allergic to mold.”r />
  “There’s no mold,” Emma said. “The place passed a health inspection before I moved in. I have the records here somewhere, if you want to see.”

  “That’s pointless,” Ryan said, wrinkling his nose. “They don’t always catch all kinds of molds. How much for the place?”

  She told him a number that was less than half of what she was paying, and he shuddered.

  This was not going to work out.

  “Are you going to do all the cooking and cleaning, then, or what?” he asked.

  “Thanks so much, Ryan,” she said, “but I don’t think we’re a good match for roommates.”

  He looked relieved.

  *

  Screwed. She was totally screwed. This kind of epic disappointment called for a nap, so she fell back onto her bed with a sigh.

  Crap. Her bed smelled like Quentin. Earthy and spicy, like cloves. Dammit, she hated him for tricking her like that—not that he’d meant to, but still. What kind of guy slept with someone they were supposed to give a message to, anyway?

  She had come onto him pretty strong. But seriously, how often did someone meet a guy who looked like Quentin? It would have been a crime to not have sex with him. Unfortunately, now she was clueless about how she’d be able to get him out of her system.

  five

  Quentin parked far from the Brooks Ranch, home of the Nevada pride. It was a sprawling place, surrounded by forest, so Quentin disrobed and stashed his clothes in his truck, then shifted into a cougar.

  The added benefit was supposed to be that he wouldn’t think so hard about Emma, but no, even his cougar wouldn’t let him forget her.

  Over the past three days since spending the night with her, he’d sent her a couple of texts. They’d sounded a little desperate, like I know we met in a weird way, but I’d like to get to know you better, and Had a great time. Call me. He’d felt like a fool, and he felt even stupider when she didn’t respond.

  His vanity would not allow him to believe she hadn’t enjoyed that night as much as he had.

  He stalked forward on large, padded feet. As soon as he was within sight of the ranch, he climbed a tree. The Nevada pride would end him if they found him out here, stalking their territory, but it also wasn’t right of them to sequester away an Exchange—a female cougar from another pride.