“You’d have the experience to know,” I mutter under my breath.
“All the better to please you with,” he instantly replies, gently cupping my cheek with his palm. “Lana, you feel this. I know you do; I know I can’t be fuckin’ making up this thing between us. Tell me why you’re pulling back; tell me so I can fix it. This shit is driving me fuckin’ insane.”
He makes it sound so easy, but it isn’t.
It’s complicated.
“Tracker,” I sigh, letting my hand run up his neck. “Of course I want you,” I admit quietly, my cheeks flushing at the admission. “But we want different things.”
His blue eyes darken, lids lowering. “Tell me what you think it is that I want from you.”
Talk about putting me on the spot.
“Ummm.” I breathe. “Sex. Lots of sex.”
And I’m not opposed to that.
Not at all.
He licks his lower lip, his gaze dropping to my mouth. “I want that, yes. What else?”
I shrug. “That’s it, I guess.”
“I see,” he says slowly, eyes lifting to mine. “Let me tell you something, Lana. I know you don’t want me to bring up Allie, but I want to explain something. With her, I rushed into shit without thinking. I was desperate for something I didn’t even want from her, something she couldn’t give, because she wasn’t you. She was easy, and easy didn’t work for me. Our relationship was based on sex and convenience—harsh, but that’s the damn truth. Good things don’t come easy; I know that now. I can be patient, take shit slow, because I know you’re worth the wait.”
“What do you want from me, Tracker?” I ask. I feel like he isn’t telling me anything new. He isn’t telling me his end game.
“I want you. For as long as you’ll have me.” His face is serious, more serious than I’d ever seen him.
“Tracker—”
“And you know what else?” he adds, flashing me a lopsided grin. “I know that you’re eventually going to give in. And when you do, it’s going to be fuckin’ perfect. So my dick can wait for you, Lana, because it has your name written all over it.”
My mouth drops open at that last comment, which he of course decides to take full advantage of, surprising me with a kiss. His mouth is soft, perfect. Delicious. Forgetting everything and anything, I wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him back. I’ve wanted this kiss for so damn long, and to finally have it . . .
It felt like Christmas morning.
His hands wander down my back and land on my hips, gripping tightly, urging me on. Feeling bold, I let my tongue explore. He moans into my mouth, sucking and nipping on my bottom lip before pulling away. Groaning in protest, I pull his head closer to me, but he still lets his mouth leave mine.
“Lana,” he murmurs, kissing my forehead. I let my head fall against his chest.
“Why did you stop?” I protest.
He chuckles softly. “Because you said we can only be friends, remember? Friends don’t kiss like that.”
I want to slap him.
I lift my head and narrow my eyes on him. “You’re such an asshole.”
“Hey, it was you who slipped in your tongue, not me. I was making it as friendly as possible,” he jokes.
Definite asshole.
I squirm on his lap, trying to get off him, while he tries to hold me in place.
“Keep squirming,” he says. “Feels good.”
I instantly stop.
I can feel his hardness through his jeans, but I’d been ignoring it, pretending it wasn’t there. But now, as we both stare down at it between us, it becomes the huge elephant in the room.
And it is huge.
I’ve been with two men in my life, and neither of them had felt this big.
“That’s quite a weapon you’re packing,” I exclaim, cringing as soon as the words leave my mouth.
Yes, I just said that.
Why do I have to be so awkward? I should just stick to writing and never use my mouth again.
Well at least for words. My mouth could still do . . . other things.
Tracker simply laughs. “All for you, Lana.”
If that were true, I’d be the happiest woman in the world.
* * *
Tracker ends up staying over for the next few hours, just hanging out and watching TV with me.
“You kind of look like her,” he says, nodding at the TV screen. We are watching Smallville reruns, and he is referring to the stunning woman who plays Lana Lang. “And you share the same name.”
My eyes widen. “Yeah, right.”
“I’m serious,” he says. “Petite, dark hair, porcelain skin, and stunning features.”
I still don’t see it, but the compliment feels nice anyway. “Well, you don’t look like Clark Kent,” I say, pausing. “More like Thor.”
He chuckles at that and mumbles something about having a hammer.
When he casually slides his arm around me, leaning it on the back of the couch, I pretend I don’t notice. When he goes into the kitchen and makes us a snack, I feel amused. It’s like he feels at home anywhere, always comfortable and confident.
I wish I could be like that.
When his phone rings, I’m snugged in the crook of his arm.
“Hey,” he says, then replies with, “Yeah, okay. Give me ten. Yeah. ’Bye.”
Lowering his head, he says, “Gotta go.”
He kisses my forehead, then walks to the front door, calling out for me to lock it.