I shoved my jeans and boxers down, and my cock sprang free. Sebastian stared at it for a second, then licked his lips, and that almost finished me right there.
He shifted down, settling between my spread legs. His hand wrapped around me, and I hissed out a breath.
“Tell me if I’m doing it wrong,” he said in the second before his tongue swirled around the tip a couple of times. Then he opened his mouth and sank down, his hand working what his mouth couldn’t take.
I’d had plenty of blowjobs. More than plenty. But this was different.
Maybe because it was Sebastian. Maybe because I could feel how much he wanted this, wanted me. Maybe because every time I looked down and saw him there, saw his lips stretched around my cock, my brain went fuzzy with how fucking good it was.
“Jesus Christ,” I groaned, my head falling back against the cushions as my fingers threaded through his hair. Not to guide him or anything—just to keep contact, to anchor myself as pure, undeniable want rushed through me.
He came off me just long enough to ask, “This okay?”
I nodded, wetting my lips, and his eyes dropped closed, sucking me deeper. He hummed around me, and the vibration shot straight up my spine.
The pressure kept building, my hands starting to shake, my breath coming fast, everything in my body winding tighter and tighter.
“Fuck, Seb, I’m gonna—” I tried to push him away, but he shook his head as I spilled down his throat, swallowing around me and working me through my orgasm until I was boneless and spent and couldn’t feel my legs.
When he finally pulled off, I still hadn’t caught my breath.
Sebastian sat back on his haunches and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, looking utterly fucking pleased with himself.
I laughed. I couldn’t help it. “Holy fuck. We should’ve been doing this all year.”
He grinned at me, that same mischievous grin from earlier, but somehow better now. “I’ve wanted to.”
“Yeah?”
He nodded and dropped his eyes, his cheeks going pink. “Yeah, Tay. I really have.”
CHAPTER 1
TAYLOR
Ten Years Later
I was pretendingto enjoy myself in a Las Vegas nightclub when Crosby Holcomb, an aging pitcher for the Los Angeles Dragons, proved once again why I couldn’t stand the motherfucker.
“Lovely to see you, Kimber,” he drawled as a waitress wearing a lacy bustier and not much else draped herself across the table to present us with a bottle of tequila. “I missed you last time I was here.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.
Kimber rolled her eyes, pasting on a smile that looked forced. “Why do you have to be so gross? Would it kill you to be a nice guy like Taylor?” She strolled away, her hips swinging in time with the steady drumbeat from the music playing on the speakers below.
Yup, that was me. Mr. Nice Guy. Sweet, dumb jock with a heart of gold.
The tequila brand rep—a woman who looked to be in her late twenties—hovered near the edge of our booth. “Okay, guys, we’re going to grab a few more photos before the next wave comes through.” She moved her hands together in a narrowingmotion. “I need you to scoot in, Crosby. Maybe put your arm around Taylor.”
“I’m good,” he said. “Don’t want anyone getting any ideas.”
I clenched my jaw and kept my gaze fixed on the table, focusing on the condensation pooling beneath my glass. “Do not punch this guy” was my mantra for the night. Causing a scene would only make this event drag on longer.
“All right, bottles up,” the photographer said, lifting his camera. He glanced at me, then back at Crosby. “Remember. This campaign’s about partying with your friends.”
Crosby snorted, and my fingers tightened around the neck of the tequila bottle. I forced them to relax and attempted to smile.
Attempted being the keyword.
“Smile like you’re actually having a good time,” the brand rep admonished me.
