Page 61 of Hard to Score

His teeth find an exposed part of my neck and they scrape against the sensitive skin there before lacing it with an open-mouth kiss to ease the sting.

It’s fire and ice.

Fans are flamed.

Tinder slowly ignites.

Every part of me aches for his touch. For him. For what I can only hope is to come. But when I try to turn around, he keeps me in place. He holds me so I have no choice but to be aware and acknowledge the incredible way his body feels against mine. The heat of his chest against my back, the hardness of his cock pressed to my ass, the possession in his hands as they run up and down my sides.

Each touch is an assault to my senses.

Each touch is a temptation I can’t wait to get lost in.

Our hips move in sync to the pulsating beat. Bodies bump us from all sides, but I only feel his. I only want his.

Need becomes desperation as his hands map my lines. Down my hips, gently toward my front and over the apex of my thighs, before running up so that his thumbs brush just beneath the curve of my breasts—before starting their torturous course all over again.

This time when I turn, he doesn’t stop me.

Our mouths find each other immediately. We’re a clash of lips and tongue and need and greed. His groan is my gasp for breath. His touch is my drug of choice. His taste creates an addiction all on its own.

But as the beat reaches a crescendo, all I can process is that this isn’t enough—it’ll never be enough—because even when our hands are on each other, I still crave more.

The crowd we’re in the middle of feeds the frenzy we feel.

Our bodies move as our tongues connect over and over again. As the desperation edges with necessity. As reason gives way to greed.

As sanity loses the battle against lust.

CHAPTER THIRTY

DREW

I NEED MORE.

Her lips on a dance floor. Her body against mine. People around us.

More.

I’ve waited almost two goddamn weeks to see her again, and it’s like some cruel joke that I can touch her but I can’t have her.

So much more.

This is akin to putting a Band-Aid on an open wound. It’ll help momentarily, but it’s not going to stop the onslaught in the long run.

How can I get more?

Brexton gently tugs my bottom lip as I search for a way to feed the desire. To ease the ache in my balls and the fervor to have her own me completely.

I move my hand between our bodies and slip my hand inside the hem of her skirt. It’s not a smooth or particularly pretty move, but when my fingers find purchase—her slick, warm, wet slit—I all but come on the spot.

I try to focus. On the beat of the music. On her fingers digging into my shoulders. On how to pleasure her. But I’m fucking oblivious to anything but the feel of her coating me as I work my fingers back and forth.

Fuck. I was wrong.

There is no lessening desire when it comes to Brexton. There’s no having a taste to tide you over till the next time. There’s only adding to it. There’s only lightning striking and taking you for its ride. There’s only temporary pleasure before you need her again.

And fucking hell do I need her again. “Come,” I tell Brexton. I pull my hand from between her thighs before tugging on her hand, without an explanation, and leading her off the dance floor toward the back of the club.