Neither of us says another word. Blood rushes hot and thick through my veins, as the backs of his fingers skim slowly, oh so slowly, up my arm. His pulse thrums, quick and visible just beneath the golden skin of his throat. I want to lick that spot, put my mouth there and suck. I want him. I want him so badly that I’m going up in flames.
A quiet, pained sound escapes me as his knuckles drift toward my inner arm, just to the side of my breast. I’m shaking deep within myself, an increasing tremor that spreads outward, until my breath comes in choppy pants that I fight to control.
What am I doing? This is Drew Baylor. Nothing good can come of this. I need to be strong. I need to stop this. To walk away.
I twitch, leaning into his touch, wanting, needing him more.
His lips part with a sigh, as if touching me is both a relief and a source of pain. Somehow my hand settles on his hip, the bone solid beneath his skin. He tenses, a visible clench that has his biceps bunching. The next instant, my fingers steal under his shirt.
His skin is hot, as if he’s burning up from within. My palm glides along rippling muscle, smooth and toned, the cotton of his shirt tickling the back of my hand as I go. He holds so still, when he shivers it’s an earthquake. My questing thumb finds his nipple, and he stops breathing altogether. The little nub of his nipple beneath my thumb turns me on so much, I bite my lip to keep from moaning. Oh, but it’s getting to him too. He swallows audibly, those little tremors within him growing stronger.
I press down hard.
With a choked cry, he stumbles forward, his forearm hitting the wall beside my head as he braces himself. Warm breath caresses my cheek, the sound of his panting filling my ears.
Shaking, Baylor stands there, so close that his heady scent and vivid heat envelop me. I draw that crisp, clean scent in, and grow lightheaded. Unable to resist, I flick my thumbnail over his nipple. He grunts, his h*ps jerking as if pulled on a string. And then he retaliates.
His long index finger curls around the strap of my top. For a moment, he simply runs his finger up and down the strap, toying with it, each pass drawing closer to my breast. Then he tugs, sliding the strap over my shoulder by agonizing degrees.
Oh, God. My lids flutter. I want to close my eyes but can’t. I’m stuck staring at his rapidly beating pulse, all of my awareness centered on the progress of my strap as it scrapes down my arm, peeling the top over the curve of my breast, which has grown heavy, aching. I don’t think I’ve ever been more conscious of my br**sts, of my body.
The top slips further, exposing more skin.
Hurry, I want to cry. I’m shaking by the time the edge of my top catches on the hard bead of my nipple. Stuck.
We both seem to hold our breaths. Beneath my palm, his heart beats fierce and strong. I can feel his stare, covetous and hot. I want him to see me. I want to be exposed to him.
The sound of laughter drifts up, and the deep bass of music has the walls buzzing. Anyone could find us here, see him pulling down my top. As if he’s thinking the same thing, Baylor shifts his weight, sheltering my body from view with his own. That small gesture, his consideration, breaks my resistance. Biting my lip, I arch my back at the very second he tugs again. My nipple pops free.
Baylor makes a sound that’s guttural. His breath is a rasp in my ear as his big hand cups my breast. The pleasure of his touch is so acute, it’s a relief, and then it’s far from that. I ache more and so deep down that my sex clenches.
He doesn’t move, just stares at his tanned hand against the white my breast and my pink nipple jutting out just over his fingers, as if he’s trying to make sense of things. Or maybe he’s just savoring the moment. His tongue darts out as he licks his lower lip. Jesus, I want to lick it too. I hold still.
The blunt tip of his thumb brushes over my nipple. Once, twice, then presses down.
A bolt of hot, sharp pleasure shoots to the empty space between my legs.
On a cry, I sag, slipping down the wall, my knees knocked out from under me. But he’s there, wrapping an arm around my waist. He holds me up. Holds me still. Gentle fingertips bracket my jaw and tilt my head up. I meet his eyes. Lust there, dark like burnt sugar. His gaze settles on my lips, and his own part. He dips his head, his breath buffeting my cheeks as he comes for me.
Without thinking, I wrench my head to the side. “No. Not on the lips.” It hurts to say it because the greater part of me is screaming. Yes. Now. Please. But I can’t. A deep, undeniable instinct tells me that, if he kisses my mouth, I’ll lose all resistance to him.
He hesitates, his brow furrowing with his frown. His gaze darts over my face, going from my lips and back to meet my eyes. A growl of frustration escapes him as he swoops down. My heart leaps, but his mouth lands on my neck, just above my shoulder. And I can’t think any more. Just his lips touching my skin has me breaking out in goose bumps. He kisses my neck the way he’d kiss my mouth, open, wet, like he’s been hungering for this, waiting for this. Kisses me with anger. Like it’s a punishment for my refusal to let him have a proper kiss. Maybe it is, but it doesn’t matter because it feels so damn good that I’m not going to stop him.
Hard kisses rain down over my shoulder, along my chest, and he sinks to his knees as he goes. A brief, suckling kiss on my exposed nipple makes my entire body twitch, but he’s moving south, his hands caressing my sides, sliding over my hips. Calloused fingers trail up the backs of my thighs, gathering my skirt, lifting it up.
Oh, God. My breath hitches, an audible sound that catches his attention. Defiance is in his eyes as he glances up at me. I can stop him if I want to. The knowledge is thick and heavy between us. But I can’t move, much less protest. I’m so ready for him, I can’t stand it. If we move, if we stop now, it might all dissolve. Illicit excitement is a drug in my veins. The wall is cold against my heated shoulder blades as I lean into it, trying not to crumple. Still he watches me and inches the skirt up and up. My soaking panties are exposed.
I’m so wet there the air feels cold. As if he scents my desire, his nostrils flare, and he finally looks. He groans as though in pain. “Fuck. Holy f**k.”
My upper thighs are wet.
Fisting my skirt in one massive hand, he uses the other to ease my legs apart. I comply without thought. I want him to touch me so badly that I shake. My cl*t pulses in time with my heartbeat.
His fingers tug aside my panties before his thumb presses into my wet, swollen lips. I bite back a moan, as the world spins around me.
Baylor takes it all in, his thumb slowly stroking, slip-sliding through slick arousal. Holding my gaze, he leans closer, his lips nearly touching my aching flesh. “Stop me.”
My heart is in my throat. I want this so much, my voice is as rough as sand. “Stop yourself.”
He doesn’t. Doesn’t even try. Before I can take my next breath, his mouth is on my sex. White lights pop beneath my lids, and I groan low and long. Jesus. I can’t take it. The pleasure almost hurts.
Gritting my teeth, I grab the short, silken hairs on his head as if he can anchor me, keep me from spiraling into the dark vortex of need that’s pulling me down. But I can’t keep still. My h*ps rock against his mouth, the tight seam of my wrenched aside panties rubbing my ass in a tormenting counterpoint to his tongue.
“Yeah,” he whispers against my skin. “Fuck yeah. Ride my mouth, Jones.”
Crude words that make me burn hotter. Sweat trickles between by br**sts. My thighs tremble, and my sex throbs. I’m whimpering, incoherent, my h*ps writhing. The hall is a dark tunnel, the party loud below us. Our exposed position has my heart threatening to pound out of my chest and highlights what he’s doing to me. The luscious wet sounds he makes, the little groans. The rough stubble on his jaw sanding my inner thigh, the heat of his mouth. He’s feasting on me. His big calloused hand holds my hips. I can’t get away. I’m his. And when his thick finger plunges inside of me, curling in towards some hidden, perfect spot as he sucks hard, I come with a suppressed scream that ravages my throat.
I’m falling into him, and he’s sweeping me up, wrapping my legs around his waist as he stumbles into the room behind us. I’m too far-gone to care if anyone is inside. Cool, quiet darkness greets us.
We land on a couch, Baylor knocking things from it even as he sets me down. My nails clutch at his shirt, tugging it, desperate to get the thing off. I need to see him, touch his skin. With a muffled curse, he yanks the shirt over his head in one move, his hair tufting in wild angles as it comes away. One glimpse of his glorious chest, hard-packed with muscle and gleaming in the pale light from the outside street lamp, is all I get. Then he’s on me, his mouth at my throat, licking, kissing, sucking. Zeroing in on a spot that sends pleasure and heat skittering through my flesh. Fingers rake my shoulders, grab hold of my top and pull it to my waist. He eases back as he does this, his greedy gaze taking in everything. I lift my exposed br**sts. An offering. A plea. I’ve become a wanton thing, needing his touch.
“Christ.” It’s a growl in darkened room. “You’re so...”
His head lowers, steamy breath buffeting my hard nipple, and then his hot, wet mouth draws me in. The way he goes at me. It’s almost lewd, his tongue sliding and flicking over my nipple as if he’s lapping up melting ice cream. I feel it to my core, as if he’s licking there too. His big, warm hand covers my other breast, kneading and shaping it with just enough force to have me restless and shifting beneath him.
When he plucks my throbbing nipple, I rear up, my hands finding his narrow waist, my mouth on the heated skin of his shoulder. He tastes of salt and smells of sex. My knuckles scrape on the buttons of his jeans as I tear at it. And then his c**k is in my hand. I revel in the thick, satin heat of him, a pulsing living thing that twitches in my grasp, before his mouth returns to my neck, his hands grabbing for my skirt. Our heads bump, our breath coming short. We’re booth too greedy, too eager to touch each other.
My panties are wrenched off and cool air hits my exposed skin. Baylor rises up over me, his honed body a work of art in the weak light. His open jeans sag about strong thighs, the jut of his long c**k just visible in the shadows. He’s reaching into his pocket, pulling a wallet out. His hands shake, the wallet threatening to fall as he struggles to get a condom packet free.
“Hurry.” My legs tremble, my sex so swollen it aches. “Now. Now.”
Cursing, he tears at the battered packet. My vision blurs, and I rub a boot-clad foot over his ass. He flinches as though burned, then rolls the condom on, canting his h*ps and holding the root of that big c**k of his in one hand as he does it. God, the way he moves, so confident and just a bit dirty. I can’t wait any longer. I’m empty, so empty.
The hot skin of his chest presses against mine, his breath a rough, disjointed sound. Both of us groan as the blunt head of his c**k pushes into me. And in, working his way deeper. Until I’m filled with him.
We still for a moment, centered on the feel of him pulsing inside of me. Inside me. Drew Baylor is inside me. It’s like a fever dream. Unreal, and yet it’s the most present I’ve ever been in my own flesh. And then he moves. Pumps hard and deep. Dream or not, it no longer matters.
Every time he thrusts, he makes a little helpless grunt as if he needs more, more. I understand. The thickness of his c**k filling and emptying me, the silk of his skin sliding over mine, isn’t enough. I’m burning up, shaking with pleasure. I didn’t know it could be like this.
My hands clutch the shifting muscles of his back, pulling him closer. He trembles, his grip moving to my ass, holding it as he does what he wants to me. And I let him, because nothing has felt better.
“Jones,” he rasps in my ear. Needy. Dark.
So close. So close.
His teeth graze the sensitive area low on my neck. When he bites down, sucking hard as he grinds against my clit, I come with bright and blinding brilliance.
As if I set something off, he goes wild, bucking and thrusting. His eyes meet mine, and my breath hitches. The way he looks at me, all heat and intensity. I know exactly what he’s feeling, because I need him with the same urgency. I dig my fingers into the tight globes of his ass. His entire body goes granite hard, straining against mine as he comes with a harsh cry, and his eyes do not leave mine until the last spasm goes through him.
Lax and sated, we melt into each other, our chests lifting and falling in a shared breath.
When he talks, his voice is coarse as gravel. “God, Jones. That was…” His voice fails, but his grip on me tightens. Like he’s not going to let me go.
Reality is a fall through ice into deep, dark water. I freeze in the aftermath. What the f**k have I done?
I’M STILL SHAKING when I get home. My hands are useless, fumbling with the button of my jeans, grasping and missing the taps before I manage to turn on the shower. Full-out cold.
I’m a wreck. My heart is beating like I’ve just done an hour of shuttle drills. And it doesn’t seem to want to slow down.
Icy water hits my overheated skin, and I hiss.
Holy hell, what just happened?
Anna Jones has wrecked me. Utterly.
Memories assault me, the pale, undulating length of her body arching up to mine; drawing her hard, luscious nipple deep in my mouth; the soft, warm weight of her br**sts cupped in my hands. I groan. My knees actually go weak, and I have to lean against the tiles or risk falling over.
Water pours over my face and runs into my eyes before I squeeze them closed. But it doesn’t stop those images from playing. Her rounded thighs spread wide. For me. A small thatch of curls and plump, wet lips glistening. For me. I licked and sucked every inch of that prize. Her taste is still in my mouth.
“Shit.” My voice echoes in the shower.
And though goose bumps cover my skin, I’m hot again. And hard. The tip of my randy dick presses against the cold tiles, and I find myself nudging forward just to alleviate the pressure. Shit. I want her again. Now. Badly.