My stomach flips. “You’re not?” The question sounds small, terrified.
He looks at me—dark, lazy, undoing. “Let’s go home, Foxy.”
Searing heat envelops my skin. I turn toward the bar, pretending to fix my hair, but the mirror behind the bottles betrays us—his arm around me, my mouth still kiss-bruised, two people trying and failing not to fall.
We say quick goodbyes, Grant and Kim grinning, the guys throwing jokes we barely register.
Outside, the air burns cold. The sky is a black sheet dusted with stars. His arm slides around my waist as we walk, my head finding its place against his side.
“Cold?” he murmurs.
“Not a chance.”
He grins—bright, ruinous—and the world tilts.
By the time we reach the house, every light is out. The porch creaks under our boots; our breath ghosts white between us. We climb the stairs, quiet as thieves.
He opens the door. Pulls me inside. The lock clicks.
My hands shake. My breathing won’t steady.
The pretending is over.
8
GOOD LUCK PRYING ME LOOSE (WESLEY)
As soon as the door clicks shut behind us, we both snap.
Jackets hit the floor. Shoes somewhere after. By the time the lock slides, I’ve got her pinned to the door, her back hitting wood with a soft thud.
She gasps. Surprise. Excitement. Challenge. And I’m a goner.
Her body slots against mine, perfect. I rock forward, delirious.
Her breath snags. “You’re not playing.”
“Foxy,” I rasp, “you have no idea.”
I lace our fingers and haul her upstairs, urgency eating the steps. The bedroom door’s barely shut before I’m on her again—hard, hungry. She meets me with a moan that blows the fuse on every ounce of restraint I’ve been faking: the PDA, the chirping, the pretend relationship that has never been pretend. Her palms skim up my chest, nails grazing skin, and the last of my control breaks, bright and clean.
“You are so damned sexy,” I manage, voice rough. “All spark and trouble and…I need to fuck you. Tell me yes. Tell me you want me inside you.”
Her eyelids flutter. “Bossy man.”
“Damn right.”
I fumble with the lock, flip it. When I turn, my pulse just…stops.
She’s already out of her jeans. Sweater off. Top gone. Black lace and lamplight turning her into heat and shadow—hips, ribs, that soft dip of her waist—and my brain blanks.
“Jesus, Joy,” I rasp. “You’re a wild one, aren’t you?”
She crooks a finger, wicked smile tugging. “Come here, pretty boy. Show me what you got for me.”
I’m halfway undressed before I know it—shirt off, belt loose, fingers fumbling my fly. By the time I reach her, she launches, legs cinching around my waist, heat searing through denim.
“Goddamn,” I groan, gripping her thighs. “You trying to finish me?”
