“If you want it to be.” Her voice sounded like that of a stranger, a gal who danced burlesque in heels and applied bold lipstick, who could lounge in comfy sweats but also rock a pair of sexy, butt-molding skinny jeans when the fancy struck.
A woman not afraid to reach out and take a little pleasure.
And so... just like that... she did.
It took Tor’s brain a second to register that he was kissing Neve Angel.
He waskissingNeve Angel.
No. Scratch that.
He was kissing the shit out of Neve Angel like a motherfucking boss.
While his mind blanked, his body got busy. Mentally, he was still processing that her lips tasted cool, tart and sweet like pink lemonade, while one of his hands dipped around her waist and hauled her against him, and the other found the bathroom door handle and turned. They tumbled inside.
And the real surprise wasn’t even that he devoured the glorious heaven that was Neve Angel’s mouth. It was that she kissedhimback. Her tongue stroked his with such sweet fire that his body ignited.
He couldn’t decide where to touch first, so like a greedy bastard he tried to get everywhere at once. Her hair was even softer than it looked, but thick and wavy. He coiled his fingers in deep, tugging to turn her head back, intensifying the kiss. She was a thunderclap on a sunny day, a four-leaf clover in a sidewalk crack, hitting every green light the whole drive home. Wholly unexpected. Better than anything he’d ever imagined.
And he’d imagined, all right. Even as he’d tried to push the thoughts away, the fantasies had reeled him back time and time again.
“Neve.” Was the word a question or a prayer? All he knew was it tasted right, like taking a sip of good wine and letting the complex flavors linger on the tongue.
“No more talking,” she ordered. Their lips crushed back together, teeth knocking. He skimmed his fingers to where her shirt rode up. When he grazed that sliver of bare, smooth skin, it was like everything in his life made sense, every bit of bad luck or stroke of good fortune had a single purpose—to bring him here. Right here... to this moment in a dive-bar bathroom, where he got to explore a perfect landscape of silky skin.
Neve commenced her own explorations, but like with everything else, she was direct—cut right to the chase. He sucked in a rasping breath as she skimmed the bulge in his jeans, pressing her palm flat, the pressure cording the muscles in his neck.
“So much for foreplay,” he choked.
She might have snapped “Screw foreplay,” but it was drowned out by a loud bang from outside.
“Yo! Did someone fall in and drown?” A deep, drunken voice slurred. “Open up. I’ve got to take a leak.”
And just like that the spell broke. Neve leapt back and her hand flew to cover her mouth, wiping her lips as if removing evidence of his kisses.
He watched her wordlessly as she threw open the door and dove into the noisy bar. How fucking stupid to think that there was anything magic about a frantic hookup in a dingy bar bathroom. This wasn’t a happy accident but one giant mistake, which for a moment felt so damn right.
Chapter Seven
“What the hell, were you two fuckin’ or what?”
“Such a lovely command you have of the English language.” Neve grimaced at the frat boy’s sour beer breath as he blocked her path from the bathroom, leering from beneath the brim of his white hat. “I’ll go with ‘or what,’ thanks.”
“I better not be slipping in no sticky shit.” The white hat’s wet mouth twisted in a lecherous smirk as he tried focusing over her shoulder. His eyes widened as he noticed who stood behind her. “Hold up... Coach? Tor Gunnar, dude. Holy shit, no way, you’re a legend.”
The dude-bro frat boy pushed past her, literally shoving her out of the way and extending a hand. “Those were some legit plays that last game, man. The lockout blows. Guess you deserve getting a little stinky pinky—”
What fresh hell was this? Neve’s throat slammed shut and she bolted out of the back hall into the throng in the bar. It was like playing the world’s worst game of Would You Rather. Would you rather maul your nemesis in The Watering Holebathroom or hear a frat boy use the wordsstinky pinkyin reference to your own vagina?
Two sets of curious eyes watched her approach the table. Breezy and Jed had called a halftime in their round of tonsil hockey. Neve heaved an inward groan. Guess she was supposed to be the entertainment.
“Where’s Margot?” she asked, as if she’d merely gone to the bathroom and never in ten million years compiled research about the size and shape of Tor Gunnar’s dick.
But if there was one person in the world who was impossible to fool, it was a sister.
“Margot’s made a new friend, as per usual.” Breezy gestured toward the bar, where Margot sat on the counter, legs swinging, and still whispering to the cute bartender. “But what’s up?” Her gaze narrowed. “Your cheeks are red.”
“Hey.”
