He doesn't answer.
He pulls me against him, his hand on the small of my back, and presses his lips roughly against mine. My body does what it always does when he touches me. Arousal rushes through me and I don’t think. When his tongue finds mine, I surrender to his kiss, forgetting about everything else.
He grips my ass, pulling me firmly against him, and I’m only half-aware of him picking me up and sitting me on top of the kitchen counter. His hands are all over me, his calloused palms rough against my skin as he cups my breasts. I slide my hands underneath his shirt, my hands roaming his chest as he kisses his way down my neck.
Every cell in my body is screaming for more. More of his hands on me. More of his lips on me. More of him.
When he pulls away from me, his voice is rough. Ragged. “It wasn’t not a big deal,” he insists. “What happened. I mean, it was a big deal.”
“You’re a dick,” I say, matter-of-fact.
“Say that again. But only the last word.”
“Dick,” I whisper.
He covers my mouth with his and I melt into him. “I’d listen to dirty words come out of that pretty little mouth all day,” he murmurs, his voice low. “Say cock.”
“How about cocksucker?” I suggest.
He growls. “That’ll do.”
His lips graze the side of my neck underneath my ear. I hear myself whimper, but not in pain, and he pulls back, looking at me for a minute.
“I just…" he begins. "I’ve… never hung around a girl after hooking up with her. I came here to – oh fuck, I don't know why I came here. I needed to cool off and I – I just thought of you. I didn't come here to do this, but then you were standing there in the doorway, looking like that… and I couldn't keep my hands off you.”
Looking like…Oh, God. My hand goes to the facemask, the mud crackled all over my skin. “Why are you making out with me?? I look like a train wreck right now.”
“Maybe I like train wrecks.”
I slide off the counter, ignoring what he just said. “You need something for your hands,” I urge him, scooting away. “I’ll get you peroxide.”
I don’t wait for him to answer. I run down the hallway to my bathroom and close the door behind me, groaning when I look in the mirror. I'm worse than a train wreck. I look like a swamp creature, between the mud mask and my unruly hair, not to mention the stained shirt and ratty flannel pajama pants.
I scrub the mask off my face and do a quick cleanup before rummaging around the cabinet underneath the sink for some peroxide. When I return, Colton is sitting at the kitchen table, his elbow propped up and his forehead in his hand. He looks up at me with an expression I can't quite place.
“I brought peroxide,” I say, holding up the bottle. I kneel down between his legs on the chair, and try to ignore the fact that I’m between his legs right now. I especially try to ignore the fact that his cock is inches away from me. “This is going to sting a little.”
I dab the peroxide on his knuckles.
“Shit! That stings a lot," he complains.
“Don’t be a baby,” I whisper, cleaning up his hands the best I can.
And avoiding eye contact because he makes me nervous. My body seems to do what it wants when I’m near him.
And what it wants to do is Colton King.
“Cassie,” he murmurs. He slides his fingers under my chin and tilts my face up. “I’ve never hooked up with the same girl twice."
“Okay." I definitely don't want to talk about Colton King's sex life right now and how I'm one of many notches on his bedpost. It's not like we've fooled around much at all. So it's probably half a notch. More like an eighth of a notch.
“So I'm…” he pauses. “I'm not real good at… whatever you do after you hook up with a girl.”
“What happened to your hands?” I ask, changing the subject.
“I punched someone.”
I stand up and set the peroxide and washcloth on the table. “Who’d you punch?”
“An asshole.”
“At the party?”
“Yeah.”
“I take it he looks worse than you?”
“I hope so.”
“Why did you punch him?”
“No reason.”
I look at him for a long moment, and he doesn’t say anything. Then he bends down and picks me up, hoisting me over his shoulder like I weigh nothing at all and carrying me down the hallway.
“What are you doing?” I protest.
“What I’ve been wanting to do since the first time I saw you,” he says, opening the door to my bedroom and throwing me on the bed. “Before you even say it, don’t.”
“Before I say what?” I sit up, half-annoyed by his flinging me over his shoulder like a caveman and half-distracted by the fact that he’s stripping off his t-shirt and dropping it onto the floor.
My eyes linger on his hard chest before meeting his gaze.