Page 58 of Ice Dance

I gasped, stepped back, stunned and horrified at my own awful behavior.

Navarro blinked. The shock on his face thrust an ice pick through my heart.

What had I done?!

I’d kissed him.

Oh, god.

He came off the desk and lunged. His mouth crashed into mine, tongue thrusting in. I reeled. Alarmed, terrified, lost in the storm of it all. He was the only solid, real thing I could hold on to. So I did. I clamped his arm in a fierce grip, hooked my free arm around his back, yanked him tight against my chest, and kissed him hard, answering his savage assault with my own. It was messy. All teeth and tongue, as though a pressure valve had been opened, and there was no slowing it down. His fingers fisted in my shirt, near my shoulder, holding on.

I shoved him back against the desk. The lamp rocked. He grunted into my mouth. I got a fistful of his hooded top, and dropped the hand that had been clamped round his arm to his ass, then hauled him up, off his feet, propping him on the edge of the desk.

He broke from the kiss long enough to look into my eyes and catch his breath. I couldn’t stop. If I stopped, I’d never start again. I wanted him in my hands, all of him, to feel him against my skin. I wanted to trace every line of his body and study the choreography of him.

“Ren?”

I put a hand over his mouth, loosely, stopping him from stopping me, then dragged it down, over his chin, onto his throat and held it there. He breathed fast, lips full, eyes glassy. He trembled already, so alive, so responsive. I’d done this to him. I wanted to do worse, so much worse.

His palms ran slowly up my chest, scrunching my shirt. I used my thumb to tilt his head, taking the lead. He turned his face away, and I bowed my head, brushed my mouth over his neck. I skimmed my lips over his skin, tasted salt and warmth on my tongue. I sucked, and pinched his skin between my teeth. He came off the desk, back arching and hands clawing.

I pushed in between his legs, ground in, and felt the hardness of him, growing harder still.

A gasp from his lips, and he tipped his head back. We moved closer, tighter. Harder. Allowed to feel, allowed to let go. I was hard, let him feel it as I pushed in. He rolled his hips, grinding back. His mouth scorched my neck, teeth nipping. It wasn’t like dancing. This was messier, desperate, unhinged, as though we were both falling while standing up. Panic-laced, if I was honest. Because if I stopped, if I thought for a second about what I was doing, I’d shatter.

So I didn’t think, just felt. For once in my life, I let the feelings in and let them take me wherever my body wanted to go.

TWENTY-TWO

CAMDEN

A tiny voice in my head said he was probably drunk, and that this was another step on the epic journey of destruction I’d decided to embark on around the time I’d made Hasegawa dance with me last night. And I didn’t care about that voice, because Hasegawa had his mouth on my neck, his hands in my hair, and everywhere, and I wasn’t thinking at all, not when my whole body was on fire, and the only thing that could quench it was him, on me. In me. All over me. I didn’t care what way. I just wanted his clothes off, his dick in my hand, or my mouth, and I definitely wasn’t going to last.

He rocked hard against me, and I rolled back against him, the two of us dry fucking through our clothes. His mouth branded my neck, then came back to mine, and I kissed him with my hands messing up his stupid hair. Kissed him like I wanted to crawl inside him. Fuck, I’d never felt desperation like it. It wasn’t just a kiss or a tame little urge to get off. My skin, body, and bones craved him.

We’d been touching for weeks, up close, body to body, muscle against skin. Hands hot, breath in my ear. But that had been work. Not like this.

He’d been holding back the whole time.

He broke the kiss, suddenly, and stepped back.

Oh god. His hair was wrecked, sticking out at all angles. His dark, sultry eyes burned. His shirt was messed up and hung askew. A bit of hip showed. I wanted my mouth there, right now. Yes, to see him unraveled, like that. My cock jumped, trapped in my pants. I sat on the desk, knees spread, arms braced behind me.

His gaze flicked behind me, into the mirror. They always put mirrors in these rooms, to make them look bigger. What did he see? Himself, looking wild and unhinged? Did he see himself like I saw him. Like caged wildness finally set free.

I was so damn hard, it hurt. I reached down to adjust myself. His gaze tracked my hand, then stayed on my crotch. He had a terrifying raw intensity. Like now that he’d unlocked this hungry, angry, furious part of him, nothing was going to stop him until he got what he wanted. And from the obvious shape of his dick in his pants, he wanted me.

I ached to go over there, cross the few steps, climb him, push him onto the bed, and go down on him, take him apart, kiss by kiss.

But it seemed like maybe he was having a moment of reflection. His brow had tightened, as though he’d begun to struggle with the idea of what came next. If he backed out, I might die, right here in his hotel room.

He tore his shirt off over his head and flung it, and I got a look at Hasegawa’s torso. I hadn’t seen it naked. I’d felt it plenty of times, but he was always covered up. He sashayed back, stepping like a dancer, hips a whole conversation, and swept in like a whirlwind. Mouth going everywhere, my neck, my jaw, my lips. Tongue teasing, hands pushing, teasing, fingers kneading.

He’s drunk.

No, no, I wasn’t listening.

He wasn’t drunk. It was just a half bottle on the bedside table. That’s not drunk, that’s . . . loose.