Cocky bastard.
I blink down at him, still lightheaded, every limb boneless. But something inside me stirs. Something reckless.
I want to touch him.
No—undo him the way he just undid me.
My hand reaches blindly for the bar, fingers closing around the can of whipped cream. I hop down, legs weak beneath me but determination giving me strength. A wicked smile curves my lips.
Hex watches—eyes dark, heated, devouring—as I close the space between us.
His hands go to his belt, but I swat them away.
“Mine,” I murmur, locking eyes as I take over.
He lets me. Lets me unbuckle the leather, pop the button, drag the zipper down slow.
He leans back against the edge of the bar, elbows braced. Then, like he’s reading my mind, he grabs the hem of his shirt and lifts, holding the fabric between his teeth.
Muscles ripple. Light and shadow play across his skin as I drag my hand down the straining bulge beneath thin cotton.
I bite my lip, the heat in my belly reigniting.
His chest rises. Falls fast. But those eyes—those tantalizing eyes—track every move like a man seconds from snapping. My fingers skim the carved ridges of his abdomen—then dip, slipping beneath the band of his boxer briefs.
His cock is hot. Heavy. Thick in my palm as I pull him free.
Of course, he’s big. I would have expected nothing less from this mountain of a man.
But still—
A flicker of nerves sparks low in my stomach. My inexperience gnaws at the edges of my boldness. I know I won’t be able to take much—not with my unreliable gag reflex—but Demi gave me tips. And damn it, I want to make my best friend proud.
Hex watches, breath shallow, chest rising and falling in anticipation as I give the whipped cream a good shake. I press the nozzle. A dollop lands on my tongue. I let it melt into liquid and drip from my mouth onto his waiting cock. I use the creamto slick my hand, gliding up and down his thick shaft, watching the muscles in his thighs tighten.
His jaw clenches. Then I lean in, pressing my lips to his. Soft. Sweet. Sticky. I kiss him,sharing the sweetness of it between us.
When I pull back, I press and trail the nozzle down the length of his cock.
The sound he makes is guttural as I lower myself to my knees and lick up the mess I just made.
His fingers thread into my hair. The grip tugs at my roots.
And I show him just how much I’ve been learning.
Ismooth my hands down my tank and, after wiping the potato salad and whipped cream—among other things—off my underwear, I button my pants and try to pull myself together. My heart’s still hammering.
Hex looks far too composed for a man who just ruined me six ways from Sunday. He runs a hand through his hair to fix the parts I thoroughly tousled.
The bar is a mess.
My skin’s still tingling. My breath won’t settle.
And right on cue, the universe shows up in the form of a creaking door and its usual middle finger.
I jerk upright so fast I nearly knock over my drink, panic flooding my system as I take in the disaster around us. Plates shoved aside, silverware scattered, lunch remnants smashed between the unmistakable evidence of what just happened.
A man steps inside, hesitating for half a second as his gaze sweeps the scene. Middle-aged, with weathered skin and the kind of presence that says he’s seen more than he ever asked for.Five minutes earlier and he’d have had one more story to add his wild tales.
