Chance on Love by Vristen Pierce Page B

reason for her little coughing spell.
    She sputtered a bit before managing to speak. “I’m fine,” she muttered. After a few moments, she moved her head to the loud, eighties song that had started to play.
    “You like this?” Interesting. She didn’t strike him as the type of woman who enjoyed music. Hell, she didn’t strike him as enjoying much at all.
    She glanced at him. “Problem?”
    He shook his head. “I just didn’t peg you as a music lover—and definitely not this decade.”
    She widened her eyes. “Are you kidding? The eighties were amazing.”
    Chance chuckled. “Yeah, amazing ly tacky. Amazingly cheesy.”
    “Please, that’s exactly why it was awesome.” She sat back. “Let me guess. You’re some classical music lover who may venture out of his comfort zone every now and then for something wild like jazz or new age?” She scoffed.
    “The best music came out of the sixties, Love. End of story.”
    She looked at him blankly.
    “You have heard of the sixties? Hendrix, Joplin, The Rolling Stones, The Beatles, The Temptations, Sam Cooke—”
    “Who?”
    Chance scrunched up his face while he tried to come to terms with the fact that Love was truly clueless. “My God, woman. What the hell have you been listening to? Sam Cooke was great.” He counted off on his fingers as he listed several songs. Expressionless, she continued to stare at him. “This is what happens when all you listen to is A Colony of Seagulls,” he said with a sigh.
    She laughed.
    His exasperation faded. He’d never heard a genuine laugh from her. It sounded like the best music of all. He realized he was staring, and he cleared his throat. “What?”
    She arched an eyebrow. “A Colony of Seagulls? It’s flock, dude. ‘A Flock of Seagulls’.”
    “Whatever.” His lips twitched before he suppressed his smile.
    She laughed again and shook her head as she picked up her bottle of beer. “And I’ll have you know that ‘I Ran’ is a fucking classic.”
    He shook his head. “Nothing from that decade is a classic, Love.”
    “Asshole,” she said before taking a drink of beer.
    Smiling, Chance stood. “Let me show you a bit of what you’ve been missing while you were busy listening to Madonna’s early albums.”
    “What are you doing?”
    “You’ll see,” he said before making his way to the DJ booth. A minute later, he returned and held out his hand. “Shall we?”
    She looked up at him. “Shall we what?” Just then, the music began to play. Love took a deep breath before placing her hand in his.
    He led her to the small dance floor and pulled her close.
    “Is this the wonderful Mr. Cooke?” she asked, peering up at him with those amazing blue eyes.
    Nodding, he smiled. “This is my favorite song of his.” To his surprise, she didn’t make any smart-ass remarks. Actually, she didn’t make any further remarks at all as they slow danced. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she rested her head on his chest as they swayed.
    She felt good. No, she felt way past good. She felt as incredible as she’d tasted. Chance almost groaned, but caught himself in time. Having her writhing beneath him in ecstasy had been one of the hottest things he’d ever experienced in his life. He wasn’t much for giving, but the mere thought of going down on her had made him so hard, he’d had to try it. Now that he had, he was hooked.
    Her pussy called to him as no other ever had before—the scent, the taste...he couldn’t get enough. Instead of becoming infatuated with fucking her, he had to stay focused. His objective was still there, it was still clear: Make her fall for him and then crush her to dust.
    After all, it seemed she was planning something along the same lines.
    Her friend’s little performance piece about vibrators, though entertaining as hell, wasn’t even remotely up to snuff. So what had Amber called her about? It had to be something to do with him. Why else would Love have shut the answering machine off so