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One of his hands moves down my back and grabs my ass, the other tangling in my hair and—nggghhh—gripping the back of my neck to hold me right where he wants me.
The one on my ass isn’t a polite little squeeze, either.
His whole hand closes around me, fingers digging into my skin hard enough that I feel every one of them. A rough groan vibrates against my mouth, and then he grabs me again, even harder this time.
And his dick pokes me right in the stomach.
Apparently he likes my ass.
Lucky for him, there’s plenty of it.
He lifts me just enough to press his hard dick right between my legs so it’s nothing but a tease against my clit.
That’s the thing that does it, that makes my legs finally wave the white flag and give up.
He catches my weight, effortlessly holding me against him as he kisses me until my lungs burn and my brain melts into a useless puddle.
When he finally breaks away, he rests his forehead against mine while we both pant, our chests heaving in the salty air. My fingers have the soft cotton of his t-shirt bunched between them, and I don’t even know when that happened.
"We need to get to the hotel," he says, sounding about as messed up over that little preview of things to come as I feel. He nods toward the towering glass high-rise looming ahead of us on the beach.
“The Saltaire.” I blink up at the gorgeous, glowing exterior. "I've always wanted to stay there.”
“Good.” His hand drops to grab mine and weave our fingers together. “I’d hate for your first time there to be forgettable.”
The low, confident way he says it sends another rush of heat between my thighs.
Shit.
I might’ve created a monster.
The lobby of the Saltaire is fancy with all the pale aqua and pristine cream furniture, which means my tipsy ass doesn’t fit in at all.
Exhibit A: My messy bun’s currently sliding off the side of my head, my lips are swollen, and I’m pretty sure I’m sweating tequila out of my pores.
I’ve never felt sexier in my life.
Not.
Sumner doesn’t seem to care, though. He’s got me tucked right into his side. I lean my weight against all the six-foot-something of muscles, breathing in the scent of mint, clean laundry, and sea salt radiating off his shirt. When we get to the front desk, he doesn't stumble or slur his words. He manages to keep his shit together long enough to slide his credit card across the counter.
While the guy working does his thing, Sumner’s eyes burn down into me.
I don’t know what he sees because there’s no way I’m not a total mess, but he keeps touching me anyway. His thumb drags back and forth over the bare skin at my waist, and every pass makes me wetter, which seems unnecessary at this point.
I lean into him a little more.
Fuck. I want this man.
I want his hands everywhere. His mouth, his tongue, his cock.
And judging by the way he keeps looking at me, I’m not alone.
His eyes drag over my face, drop to my mouth, then lower before coming back up again. His hand tightens at my waist.
Yeah.
He wants me just as bad.
