Jordan cocks his head, gesturing toward the recently vacated pool table to our left. “Do you play?” His question is slightly slurred.
I tangle a paper napkin in my hands, twisting it into a corkscrew. “Um, not really.”
He stands up on somewhat unsteady legs and holds out his hand to me. “Come on. I’ll teach you.”
The past two hours have been a dream ripped right out of every single fantasy I’ve had about the man in front of me. Jordan teaching me how to play pool turned into enticing touches and seductive words, caressing fingertips across my hip and lower back, and subtle nuzzles against my neck as he leaned over me while helping me line up a shot. His flirtations were heady. His whispered words in my ear felt like a lover’s caress. I might not have had any alcohol to drink, but I was absolutely drunk on him, and I had no defense against that kind of seduction.
Looking over his shoulder with a finger to his lips to stay quiet, Jordan pulls me down the back hallway of Mickey’s. I don’t know where he’s taking me, and honestly, I don’t care. I’d follow him anywhere. I’m Cinderella at the ball right before the clock strikes midnight. I’m lost in the sea of Jordan, letting him carry me along his current and not caring where I’ll get washed ashore.
I know this night, this wonderful dream come true, is finite, and I’m going to cherish every second I have left before it’s all taken away. Because, tonight, even if for a short few hours,I’mthe girl Jordan is paying attention to. Not the blonde at the bar. Me.
What are you doing? This isn’t you. You’re just one of many. No one special.
I tell my conscience to shut the hell up.
Jordan stumbles to the side and pushes open a door to the right. It gives way easily, and suddenly, I’m yanked inside. He kicks the door closed with his foot and presses my back to the cold, hard wood. I can’t see a thing, it’s so dark, but there’s a distinct acidic stench of chemicals, like cleaning solution or bleach.
“Jordan, what—”
His mouth crashes down on mine. Oh my god.Oh my god. Jordan Hammond is kissing me.
It’s brutal. Possessive. Perfect.
I’ve never been kissed before. Not even a fumbling peck on the lips. But somehow, my body knows exactly what to do, even as my brain protests that I should put the brakes on what’s happening. Tell him to stop.
I don’t.
With a moan of longing over four years in the making, my lips part and I welcome the invasion of his tongue inside my mouth. I taste the bitter hops from his beer but overriding that is the taste of him. It’s delicious and forbidden and I lose myself to it. Drown in it.
I want more.
Our tongues slide and tease. Stroking soft, then hard.
Jordan pulls back slightly, and I moan in protest, not wanting him to stop.
“Jesus, fuck, baby. The things I want to do to you.”
Yes, anything. Just please don’t stop, I silently beg.
He fists my hair, the sting it elicits is new and thrilling. He takes my lips again, devouring me like a decadent dessert.
My hands don’t know what to do, so they reach up and grip his wrists, holding on for dear life as he kisses the ever-living hell out of me.
I’m burning up, my skin is literally on fire as licks of flame scorch me from the inside out. Something hard pushes into my stomach. He’s hard. I made him hard. Me. I did that.
Then things get out of control.
I jump when his hand shoves into my pants, and I moan loudly when he goes straight for my clit, strumming it aggressively. No one has ever touched me there before. Yes, I’ve masturbated to thoughts of him more than I can count, but it felt nothing like this.
Everything is happening at a whirlwind pace. I don’t have time to feel self-conscious about my belly pooch or my muffin top or the extra cellulite that jiggles.
“So wet for me already,” he grunts into my neck, biting and licking and claiming.
His erection grinds into my hip, his rough fingers bringing me to the precipice of an embarrassingly quick orgasm.
Holy shit. Oh shit.
“Jordan,” I moan wantonly.
