We grind in rhythm to the electronic beat, his head lolling on my shoulder. I slide the backs of my fingers up his bare torso, give him an encouraging nudge to lift his arm. He does, slips it up and hooks it behind my neck. My fingers follow up the underside of his arm, and he squirms, a small laugh bursting from him. I nuzzle into his neck and sink my fingers into his hip. There’s no denying what’s behind my hold. Possession.
And then I finally do what I’ve been dying to do all night. I wrap my other hand around that tempting rainbow scarf, yank his head back, and claim that sexy mouth.
Mine.
He melts into me, our hips moving in tandem. I slip my hand a little lower. Splay my fingers. I brush against where he’s firming up. Those little shorts don’t hide anything. I pull him back into me more, encourage him to gyrate those hips like I know he can. I’m rewarded with the sexiest grind of his strong glutes against my dick. Damn, the man can move his ass.
The bass shakes through my chest, my pulse syncing with the music. I’m nothing but a whirl of sound and a blur of rainbow light. It flashes against my closed eyelids, heightens each roll of his tongue against mine. He’s a hint of tequila and lime, topped with a trace of salt.
My own little shot of Shane.
And I have to say, I want to drink him all night.
Until I’m drunk on him.
Or maybe I’ve been drunk on him all along.
THIRTY-FOUR
JED
We stumbleinto Shane’s townhouse, but not because of the drinks we had at the club—no, it’s because Shane refuses to stop touching me. His hands were on me the entire car ride back here. It took every ounce of self-control I had not to jump him in the back of our rideshare. At one point I had to pin his wrist to his thigh to prevent him from fondling me in full view of our driver.
I’m not sure why we came back here when I have my own apartment where we could continue this in private. But when it came time to give the address, the townhouse’s was the one that fell out. Somehow, in such a short time, this place has become more like home than my apartment has ever been.
Shane fists my tank and yanks me to him, his lips crashing against mine. There’s something different in the way he’s touching me tonight. There’s a chaotic edge to it, not that that’s unlike Shane, but it’s almost…desperate. His fingers tremble against my skin where they’ve disappeared underneath my tank. He walks backward, leading me to his bedroom, our lips never too far from each other. Mouth. Jaw. Neck.
The door to his bedroom bangs shut, and I fall against it. He steps back, eyes boring into mine. He shrugs out of his short-sleeved, open-knit button-up. Then his hands reach for the tie of his shorts, and he slowly pulls the bow loose. Those fucking rainbow popsicles.
Torturing me all night.
My mouth waters.
Teasing me with what they hint at.
Delicious. Things. To. Suck.
The material is so thin, so soft, I could feel every flex of his ass as he danced on me. I swallow thickly. The hard ridge of him when he’d spun to grind on me front-to-front. A hard ridge that’s still very much present, given the way it’s straining against those popsicles right now. His fingers dip below his waistband?—
“Wait,” I say hoarsely.
His hands freeze.
I step up to him and tug lightly on his rainbow scarf. “I want to be the one to peel those off you,” I whisper. He nods slowly while I walk him backward until his thighs hit his bed. I tease the fabric of his scarf between my fingers. “On or off?”
“Off. I want you free to play with my hair.”
A groan rumbles in my chest. I can’t deny the fact that I love playing with those golden curls. I push back the headband and slide my hands through them. So fucking soft. So perfect for fisting. He leans into my touch, a silent plea. I give in and gently massage his scalp.
He melts against me, his forehead dropping to my shoulder. He stretches his neck and moans when I hit a spotjust right. I swear this man is part dog. I wouldn’t be surprised if he started kicking his leg.
As much as I’d like to pet him all night. There are other areas I’m dying to pet… I grab under his thighs and toss him onto his back.
A lazy smile curves his lips, and his eyes fall shut. “I love when you manhandle me,” he murmurs. “I just love when you handle me, actually.”
I bite back my smile and lean over him, my hand landing on the mattress next to his head, the other one skimming up and down his bare thigh. His skin is so soft, nearly smooth. It’s a common phenomenon with athletes; with the constant friction of athletic wear, you lose your body hair. Shane’s hair is already on the finer side, so I’m not surprised his doesn’t hold up to the chafing.
His eyes flutter open, and I’m assaulted by an endless ocean of blue fringed in gold. Those eyes. They’re my undoing. They pull me in, trap me in their current. I’m helpless but to go along for the ride.
