And safe says that I should run again.
But I can't.
My eyes bounce back and forth as I stare at his piercing blues. They search mine, seeking something. A glimmer of approval, maybe.
I'm not sure what he sees, but before I can think about it too much, I’m leaning forward. Jett’s eyes widen slightly, mouth parting as he watches with a held breath, preparing for the worst.
My fingers curl into the front of his soaked Riggsby Cattle t-shirt, and I yank him closer. The cotton bunches under my grip. Leather, vanilla, mint, and smoke fills my lungs. It’sintoxicating, making me lust-drunk. It’s the only plausible explanation for my actions.
“Wren…” His voice is soft, cautious.
I shake my head, not wanting him to interrupt this moment. Before I can tell myself this is a horrible idea, I slam my mouth to his.
It’s not gentle or sweet. It’s a collision of lust, hate, and passion all in one.
Our one time to get each other out of our systems. To get the closure we never did.
His groan rumbles into me, low and guttural, vibrating through my chest. One hand grips the back of my head as his fingers tangle in my hair, while the other wraps tightly around my back. I’m pushing against his strong chest, demanding he fall onto his back.
“Shit, Wren,” he hisses through his teeth.
“Don’t talk,” I snap against his lips.
Tossing my legs on each side of his hips, I drop down until I’m sitting on his lap. My hands smooth over his chest—chiseled from years of working out and being in prime shape. He’s wider than I remember, and my fingertips trace every deep valley of his new physique.
His hands land on my hips before he’s running them down my thighs, across my bent knees, and reaching as far as his long arms will allow.
“These fucking legs,” he growls against my lips, punishing me with each flick of his tongue. Since I had my growth spurt between seventh and eighth grade, Jett’s always been obsessed with my legs. The way they seem to stretch on for miles. The strength in my muscles comes from running mile after mile. He always found a way to touch them, grip them, stroke them, wrap them around him.
I grab the hem of his shirt, dragging it up until we’re forced to break our kiss as I tug the cotton over his head. My eyes track his bare skin, the smattering of blond hair that trails to his bellybutton before dipping below his jeans. Black ink swirls over his chest and down his left arm. Intricate designs and beautiful artwork paint a story over his skin. I want to lick the ink as I re-familiarize myself with him again. But his grip in my hair tightens as he pulls me back down to him. His tongue licks the seam of my lips, begging for permission that I eagerly grant him. With a flick of his tongue against mine, I taste him—whiskey with a hint of cigarettes.
The years vanish.
It’s him and me.
Us.
It’s every emotion we’ve spent the last decade burying, exploding at once.
Our teeth bash, fueling the heat between us as Jett shifts, his back landing flat against the floor. Everything about our movements is rushed, both of us afraid that the other will come to our senses.
He matches me, move for move, as I writhe against him. The two of us are dry-humping like the horny teens we used to be. Teens who were sneaking stolen kisses and letting our hands roam places we shouldn’t have been while praying our parents wouldn’t walk in on us.
I can feel him growing thicker through his jeans. The denim causes friction through my cotton shorts, hitting me in the spot I’m needy for. His hands are rough, skimming up my thighs until he’s gripping my hips.
“Fuck,” he grits out, lips leaving mine to trail kisses down my neck, and I moan.
My back arches, and I press my chest deeper into his. Jett’s callused fingers graze my flesh, fingertips teasing the skin below my silk tank top as goosebumps erupt. Reaching down, I grip the hem and tug the top over my head.
Our bare chests meet as our mouths fuse. Jett lets out a deep moan as his touch trails up my sides, over my ribs until he’s cupping my breasts.
“Mmm…where’s your bra, Wren?” he asks, his eyes searching my face.
“I wasn’t expecting company,” I mumble, grinding down on his erection, feeling the friction against my aching center. It’s been so long since I’ve had sex. Tonight, I’m simply chasing the high I’ve been craving. “This doesn’t mean anything,” I blurt out, but don’t stop my movements.
His laugh is raspy as he nips my ear. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
I roll my eyes, reaching down and yanking his belt open with shaking hands. I need to have him inside me. I’m furious with how desperate I’m acting.
