“MACKIE.”
“I’m kidding.” I jerk my chin toward my purse. “I brought condoms.”
He stares across the room. “You brought condoms.”
“Of course I did.” I pull him back down to me. “Now stop panicking and do what you did with your mouth the other week.”
He blinks. “Which part.”
“ALL of it, Zach, keep up.” I put both hands on his shoulders and shove him down. “Go.”
He goes.
The first touch of his mouth against me catches me off guard. My whole body jerks and the same flash of self-consciousness hits me the way it did the first time—what is he tasting, what is he smelling, what is he actually THINKING down there—and then he murmurs against me.
“You have no idea how good you taste.”
Zach Almardon, who turned the color of a tomato asking for my phone number, who couldn’t say the wordcomeout loud for the first three weeks we were together, just said that into my skin like it was nothing. Like he’s been thinking it and decided I shouldknow. And I don’t have a single word in my brain to answer him with.
I scrape my fingers through his hair instead. The way it feels against my palm, thick where it curls at the ends—I’m thinking about that when he sucks hard on my clit and the thought evaporates.
My hips roll up against his mouth before I can stop them.
And again.
And then I realize with a full-body flush of mortification that I am grinding against his face and I have completely lost control of my own hips and he has both hands locked around my thighs and he is LETTING me and the sound he makes against me tells me he is more than okay with this.
“Zach, please—” I’m begging and I don’t even care.
He does something with his tongue that makes me forget my own name. I’ve got both hands fisted in his hair and zero control over anything and then?—
Three knocks at the door.
We both freeze.
My hands are still in his hair. His mouth is still on me. Neither of us breathes.
“Almardon.” It’s the calm voice of a man who’s been checking on younger players in hotel rooms for twenty years. “You in there? Just want to check in.”
I look down and Zach is staring up at me from between my thighs.
“OH. MY. GOD.” Is all I manage before his hand comes up and covers my mouth. “That’s my dad. THAT’S MY DAD. THAT’S MY DAD!” I’m whisper-screaming it from behind his palm and his eyes are telling me to shut the hell up.
The closet is four feet away.
I’m across the room in approximately one second, grabbing my purse off the chair, scooping my jeans off the floor, myshirt from wherever it landed, and I’m moving so fast I’m not even processing, just collecting evidence on the way, and Zach is up off the bed pulling his joggers on with one hand and looking at the door and looking at me and we are moving in complete panicked silence.
I get to the closet, squeeze inside, pulling the door shut behind me into the darkness as Zach’s moving toward the door and I realize I’m missing something.
My bra.
Zach realizes it at the same time.
The bra comes flying through the two-inch gap of the closet door and hits me square in the face.
I stand naked in the dark, holding it against my nose with my purse and my jeans and my shirt all clutched to my chest and I hear Zach take one breath, then another, and then the door opens.
“Anderson.” His voice comes out completely normal. “Hey.”
