Sweet Jesus. Every time I’m around this girl, I see why Brock’s dead set on officially making her his. Though she’s completely oblivious to it, and a little off her rocker, there’s nothing about her that isn’t truly phenomenal. She’s a spitfire. My match in every way possible.
The hostess, now appearing further confused and somewhat concerned, leads us toward a booth in the back corner. After Blondie drops two menus on the table and announces that our waitress will be with us shortly, Amber slides in against the wall and rests her legs on the cushioned seat. Frustration’s leaking from her pores. I can almost hear her mentally cursing me out.
“You’re not gonna talk to me?” I make sure I sound offended.
Silence.
“That really hurts, Amber,” I add, this time including my best frown.
More silence.
I chuckle, loving how fucking cute she is when she’s pissed. “I bet by the time I drop you off, not only will I have struck up some kind of conversation with you, but I’ll get you to tell me what color panties you’re wearing.”
She scoffs.
At least I got her to make some kind of noise.
I shrug. “Whatever. You’ll see. I’m good at shit like this.”
She ignores my statement.
Deciding to prove my point, I pull a dollar from my pocket, feed it into the minijukebox hanging from the wall, and hit F5 for a little Florida Georgia Line. Though I also dig it, chicks can’t help but melt when they hear this song.
After a few moments . . .
“You listen to them?” Amber asks, tapping her finger against the table to the beat.
“You talked. I win,” I inform her with my eyes locked on hers from over the menu, well aware that I sound like a child. “Now tell me, are they red or pink? Lace or satin?” She goes to speak, but I cut her off. “Wait, let me guess. I’m thinking black lace? Mm. Fuck yeah, black lace.” I close my eyes, a vivid, filthy picture involving spiked heels, body paint, and a video cam flashing in my mind. “Brock, such a lucky bastard. I hope he’s taking care of all of that.”
She rolls her eyes. “Is that all you do, Ryder? Think about sex?”
“As many times in a day as you roll your eyes, Amber,” I deadpan, lifting a dark brow. I can tell she’s fighting the urge to roll those pretty eyes.
She shakes her head. “Just so you know, when we do get around to it—and we will—I’m sure Brock will know what to do with all of this.” She sweeps a vogue-style hand across her body.
I stiffen—or maybe my dick does. I can’t be too sure at this point. Considering I already knew Brock hasn’t sampled everything she has to offer, it’s pretty safe to say she’s jarred my head a little something more than I’m used to.
“Also,” she continues, lifting her own brow, “good luck finding out what color panties I’m wearing.”
I frown. This time it’s an honest-to-God frown.
“Now can you answer my original question?” she asks.
Blank. It’s me shaking my head this time. “What was the original question?”
“Florida Georgia Line,” she reminds me. “You like them? I never pictured a guy like you listening to their music.”
I clear my throat, attempting to rid my mind of several filthy thoughts. “Yeah, I like them. ‘Cruise’ is one of my favorite songs.”
“It’s one of my favorites too.” She shrugs. “Again, I just never pictured you listening to them.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.” I drop my eyes back down to the menu.
“Ryder,” she says softly after a moment.
I jerk my head up for two reasons. One: in the short time we’ve known each other, I’ve never heard Amber say anything softly, let alone my name. Two: the sound of this new voice makes me feel strangely relaxed, comforted. Jesus. In a split second, she’s managed to twist me up.
What the fuck? Usually her voice evokes some kind of frustration in me, which then morphs into an uncontrollable urge to throw her onto the closest surface and fuck her until her legs only know how to function while wrapped around my head, shoulders, or waist.
“Amber,” I reply, my eyes pinned on hers.
She looks at the table then back up at me, her voice remaining soft. “There’s a lot I don’t know about you because every time you’re around me, you wind up acting like a certified prick.” She gnaws on her thumbnail. “Is it an act?”
“Why would you think it’s an act?” My tone comes out harsher than intended, causing her to flinch. My stomach tightens with guilt as I gaze into the eyes of a broken, fallen angel.
Christ. What the hell is wrong with me?
I know what happened to her parents. Though it took some hard convincing, I got Brock to give me the details after he hung out with her at the lake. That shit rocked my head, so I can only imagine what it’s done to hers.
Still, a pissed-off Amber Moretti is as hot as they come. Call me an asshole, but since the moment her tight little ass fell into my lap, it’s been pretty simple. I get off on pissing her off.
But I’m not all douche. Sure, some of my reasoning for fucking with her is sexual, but the other is an attempt at eliciting an actual smile from the girl. Her whiskey-colored eyes alone are amazing, and ninety percent of the time, they’re drenched in pain. The emptiness beyond them is a mirror of what lies beneath her hardened front—bottomless, polluted torment. It nearly kills me, and had I known the source of her pain, I wouldn’t have laid my shit on as thick as I did.