I guess we’ve both had one toomany drinks because in no time I pull at his shirt, sliding it up his cut body.Tossing it aside, I kiss down his neck, to his chest.
“Fuck,” he mutters.
What am I doing?
I’m hungry for his flesh. LikeI’ve been starving and all I need is to consume it so that I can ward off thisnagging pain within me.
I pull back, and as he attempts tocling on, I shove him back onto the couch. “Sorry,” I say.
He appears stunned, as if the kisswas just as good for him as it was for me, though the excitement in hisexpression suggests he doesn’t really understand the consequences of what he’sdone.
“Forget that happened.”
“I doubt I’ll be forgetting thatanytime soon,” he says. “Come on. I know you want this. I see the way you lookat me. You think I’ve never seen that look before? You don’t have to hate yourselfaround me. You can just get on for the ride of your life.”
I’m a little annoyed. “Oh, so youthink I’d want to take it?”
“I think you’d enjoy it more thanyou want to admit.”
“Sorry, but I’m a top.”
“Uh oh. Then I guess we’re leftneeding to answer the question: what the fuck are we going to do with twotops?”
The smug look on his face makes mewant to deck him or force-feed him my dick.
“Cockiness is only so attractive,”I say.
“I figure the gym takes care ofthe rest.”
It sure fucking does, I note as Iasses his impressive physique. He leans back to remind me of what I’ll bemissing if I dismiss this opportunity. He offers a wink and a sadistic smile,one that leaves me wanting to fuck his brains out even more than I already do.
He hops up from the couch and approaches,a seductive look in those bright blue eyes. I can tell he just wants to fuck.And I can’t deny the shifting movement in my jeans.
Tad steps right up to me, ourgazes meeting.
I want to tear off his clothes. Toravage him. To wipe that cocky grin off his face. Give him a reason to screamout in pain. He raises his hand and runs it across my face.
As he rubs across my scar, I turnsharply.
When I turn back to him, hisexpression is filled with concern.
“Sorry,” he says. For a moment, Isee all his bravado has disappeared and been replaced with sympathy. It’s alook that’s far more attractive on him. Makes me think there’s a lot more tothis guy than the show he puts on.
“Where’d you get that?” he asks.
“Shaving,” I say facetiously,hoping he’ll get that it’s none of his fucking business.
“Seriously.”
I don’t know why, but the fact thathe’s pressing, coupled with the fact that it’s not something I care to thinkabout, ignites a fire within me. I just need to get the fuck out of there. I’vegone too far, and I shouldn’t be sending this guy the message that there canever be anything more here than a professional relationship. Although I kind offucked that up when we started making out on the couch.
Fucking tequila.
“None of your fucking business,” Isay, turning and starting toward the door.
He grabs my arm, and someinstinct—some defense mechanism within me—from the vulnerability he alertedwhen he touched me, hits the wrong nerve. I whirl around, grab him, and shovehim back against the wall. Wide-eyed, his mouth hanging open, I can tell he’s notjust startled, but horrified by my reaction. Something in me wants to set himat ease. Assure him that I didn’t mean to react the way I did.
I kiss him. Hard. Because a partof me just wants to feel that sensation he stirred on the couch again.
