My only vindication was knowing that expression was long gone when their ass got nailed to the wall in divorce court a few months later. I’d let Ian have his gloat. He wouldn’t have anything to gloat over very soon.
“You must be scared my winning last night wasn’t some random stroke of luck, eh?” I called out my window as I pulled up beside him.
“Maybe,” Ian replied, his smile tugging high on one side. “But maybe my motivations for winning are especially high in this situation.”
Nothing like getting to screw a girl on the top of a hood to “motivate” a man. I used to believe there was hope for mankind. After the number of men I’d dealt with as an Eve, I’d come to the conclusion that mankind had been screwed from the beginning. “Is that the 2011 or 2012 Saleen?”
Ian peaked an eyebrow. Guys were always surprised when a woman knew about cars, like gearhead knowledge was only reserved for someone with a dick.
“The 2012. And it’s fast.”
“Fast enough to beat me?” I hung my elbow out the window.
“It damn well better be, or I’m firing my mechanic.”
“Well”—I shrugged—“enough talk. Let’s do this.”
Ian shoved off his car and pulled open the door. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think someone’s as eager for me to win as I am.”
On Sheet night, it was all about accommodation. It was all about getting the Target closer and closer to the bed or, in that night’s instance, the hood of the car. It was about saying and doing whatever it took to put it into his head that he simply had to have me. He simply wouldn’t live a full life if he didn’t.
Ian Hendrik’s type, though, didn’t need much handholding. I could pretty much fire insult after insult at the guy, and he’d still wind up with his pants around his ankles.
But . . . better to play it safe. I wasn’t the number one Eve in G’s little black book because I took blatant risks. I followed the guidelines, most of the times, and if a risk was required, I made sure it was a calculated one. “Maybe I am a little eager for you to win. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to make you work any less hard for the win.”
Ian slid into his car, his eyes never leaving mine. “Just how eager are you?”
You know those guys who can make you skeezed out with one look? Yeah, that was Ian Hendrik.
“Why don’t you win, and then you can find out firsthand just how eager I am?” Lifting an eyebrow, I revved the engine.
“I’m made of win, babe.” Revving his own engine, he waited for me to call the start.
Raising three fingers, I lowered one, then the next, and when the third one was down, we both punched it off of the line. The Saleen, as predicted, exploded ahead; it wasn’t an iconic race car for nothing. However, what advantage Ian had at the start of the race, I more than compensated for in experience.
At the halfway point, we were almost neck and neck. When the finish line was in view, I’d taken the lead. I could hear Ian cussing his car to hell and back even over the roar of the engines. Or at least I could imagine it. As good as it felt last night to kick his ass at something he loved, and as good as it felt to be kicking it just as hard when he was in one hell of a fast car, that night wasn’t about winning.
Not the kind that involved race cars anyways.
It took me two tries before I could pull back on the accelerator just enough that Ian’s Saleen slipped by. It was my turn to mutter a string of obscenities. He might have won the race, but only by half a car length and only because I let him. Only because it was part of a larger plan. I had to get him out into the open to have sex with him so some third party could catch us on film so his wife, who I strongly disliked, would come out of a divorce with more than the Dolce on her shoulder.
Most days, my job didn’t seem one hundred percent morally reprehensible. That day wasn’t one of those days.
Hitting the brake, I checked the time on the dash. We were good. As long as the Client had gotten in touch with the Contact and that person was there at the intended time, we were good to go. Before stepping out of the car, I eyed the hood, sighed, then got to it. Ian practically bounded out of the Saleen with a wide smile. He caught sight of me and that smile shifted into something more devious. I’d brought a few mini bottles of vodka along just in case he needed some liquoring up before he humped a girl who may or may not be legal on the hood of a car, but it didn’t look as though he needed it.
Stopping in front of me, his hands dropped to my h*ps as his h*ps pressed into mine. Yep, definitely didn’t need the vodka to lower his inhibitions. “So . . . just how eager are you?” he asked. He lowered his mouth to my neck at the same time his hands fisted up the material of my dress.
I gasped in an attempt to sound surprised, but to my ears, it sounded a little forced. To Ian’s ears? At that point, I don’t think the guy was using his ears at all. His hands and mouth were picking up the slack, though.
“Eager. Very eager,” I breathed, pulling my dress straps down to tug it past my chest. That was about the time Ian’s hands lowered, his fingers eagerly exploring as he moaned.
In true Sheet night fashion, I didn’t have on any underwear. No panties. No bra. No wasted time. It was all about efficiency and speed. The sooner the Target got caught on film nailing me, the sooner I got to get away.
“Oh, my god. You really are eager.” He moaned again when his finger moved deeper inside of me.
Shoving him away playfully, I stepped back until I felt the Acura’s bumper against my calves. Slowly lying back, I spread myself on the warm hood and gave him a face no man could mistake. The fuck-me expression. “So? Are you going to play with me all night, or are you going to f**k me?”
Ian wet his lips, unable to take his eyes off of the spot where my knees rocked together and apart. When I lowered my hand to the spot he couldn’t take his eyes from, and I began gliding my finger up and down, his zipper lowered about one second before the rest of his jeans.
“Oh, baby. I’m going to f**k you. I’m going to f**k you so good you’ll never be able to be with another man without thinking about me and what I did to you.”
No guy who was actually a pro in bed had to clarify that. He wouldn’t even think it, because he just knew. To date, I’d never met a single Target who hadn’t said something similar. In their minds, they were the be all end all. Especially when it came to knowing what to do with their dicks.
To date, for the record, not a single one had gotten me remotely close to orgasm. None had even made my n**ples harden. I would have found crocheting baby booties more thrilling, honestly, than hav**g s*x with any of my Targets.
That whole morally reprehensible part? It was really hitting hard that night.
Ian tugged his shirt over his head before lowering himself over me. Two more things that added up to Ian Hendrik being a Giant Douche? He was about to drive his dick into me and he had yet to kiss me, and . . . and he was trying to drive said dick into me without a condom.
Probably why the bastard liked his conquests young. Less to worry about in the STD arena, although I’d run across teenagers getting twice as much action as I was, and what did Ian Hendrik care if he knocked up one of them? He wasn’t going to raise a child when he was still one, and the word of a married, renowned photographer would be taken over the word of a young woman his lawyer would paint as a greedy youth trying to pin an unplanned pregnancy on a man of means. Not that such a case would ever wind up in court in the first place. I didn’t doubt Ian would pay a conquest off before it ever got that far.
“Easy there, Grand Prix,” I said, shoving Ian’s chest. “Suit up or get up.”
“I don’t like condoms,” Ian replied, almost panting.
“Then I hope you like not getting laid because that’s exactly what’ll happen if you don’t put one on.”
Ian’s hand covered my breast, playing with my nipple. He wasn’t picking up what I was putting down. Not the sharpest knife in the drawer, that one.
“I didn’t realize my winning came with so many conditions,” he said, his mouth taking his hand’s place on my breast.
“I didn’t realize a condom needed to be a condition these days. I thought that came pretty standard. You know, like cup holders in cars. You don’t have to ask because those little buggers are expected, not preferred.”
His tongue continued to circle my nipple as either he debated or hoped I’d change my mind. From the handy work his mouth was not making, he certainly wouldn’t have changed my mind, even if it could have been changed.
“Ian, I’m serious. Get off of me if you don’t have a condom or intend on using one.” I gave him another shove to prove how serious I was. I would do few things to jeopardize an Errand, but lack of a condom was one of them. As a hedge against Targets who “forgot” one—and with the men I dealt with, a good percentage of them usually did—I made sure to always keep a couple handy in my purse, clutch, dress, shoe, etc.
“Fine, but I don’t—”
Raising my leg, I slid my heel off, grabbed what I needed, and flashed the condom in his face. “Good thing I do then.” I lifted my eyebrows and waited.
He groaned before punching the hood of my car and standing up. If a man could look like a petulant little boy, Ian Hendrik had just nailed it. He grabbed the condom and was just moving it into position when a bright flash surprised us both. It came from the side and a ways up in the grandstands, but I didn’t need two guesses to know who had made it. If the grim outlook on humanity’s future didn’t kill me, an ignorant Contact would. Who in their right mind would use a flash at a dark race track? That’s right, no one. Which meant the Contact was a raging idiot.
“What the hell was that?” Ian grumbled, frozen as he surveyed the grandstand.
One sure way to distract a man’s attention from . . . anything, a speeding train included? Roll a condom down his shaft.
With your mouth.
“Oh, hell yes, baby. Now we’re talking.” Ian’s fingers wove through my hair, and he guided me a bit forcefully. After a few seconds, that flash and what it meant was a distant memory.
Having to be just as forceful as he was, I yanked my head away from his packaged, ready, and if I’d been a virgin bride on my wedding night, rather disappointing dick. I lay back over the hood. Time to get it over with.
Ian almost pounced on me, his h*ps frantically trying to gain purchase. Done with the swing-and-miss routine, I grabbed hold of him and guided him the rest of the way. When he entered me, it wasn’t slowly. Or gently.
“That feels so damn good,” he panted outside of my ear, driving a little deeper. “You’re not a virgin are you, babe? You’re so damn tight I’m starting to wonder.”
That’s because I do more Kegels than the girlfriend of a rock band’s lead singer. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. I’d done that more than usual with the Hendrik Errand. “No, I’m not a virgin.” And if I was, the last place and person I’d want to lose it with would be here and with you.