SHAY
“YOU CAN TASTE me.”
He waits for me to say every last word before the wet heat of his tongue streaks up my skin.
His stubble rasps and scrapes against my inner thigh, and the sensation is electric and sharp.
I let out a small sound.
I know I shouldn’t—know I can’t.
We’re not in the privacy of my room anymore. Someone could walk in. A guest. A hostess. Anyone.
His warm hands clench the back of my legs tighter, and another sound tears out of me.
Heat ignites under my skin everywhere he touches. Nerves spark at every point of contact.
He’s not in a hurry.
That’s the most dangerous part because we should be tearing through this, fast, reckless.
His fingers trail up the backs of my legs, then he pauses and looks up at me. His gaze is molten.
And those eyes.
They scorch.
Hungry, dangerous, impossible to look away from.
They smirk before his mouth does.
If he’s waiting for my objection, it’s not coming.
And he takes my silence as the invitation it is.
With his hands gripping my calves like iron, he jerks my ass to the edge of the counter.
It’s all so quick.
The yank. The slide. My heart lurching at the thought of slipping right off.
But I know he’d never let me fall.
My fingers tangle on the edge of the counter, trying to find my composure.
Like that’s going to happen.
The cool granite bites into my bare skin. I didn’t wear panties, and my shorts are a joke—thin, loose, nothing to hide anything. And I’m already soaking wet and throbbing with need.
We’re going to have to sanitize this counter.
The thought hits me sharp.
Shit, I shouldn’t be on this counter.
That’s the logical part of my brain. The respectable part. The part I’ve always listened to without fail.
But I can barely hear it.
