“My place it is.”
On the ride over, I think about how it’ll go down. Don’t want to be overeager—can’t jump her the minute I get in the door.
No matter how much I fucking want to.
I’ll have to move slow, be smooth. Romance her. Offer her a drink, give her a tour. It’s not like I haven’t done this before, but it feels different this time. Because I know her.
Because I actually . . . like her—no matter how ridiculously inadequate that sounds.
? ? ?
I walk in the door ahead of Chelsea, flicking the switch on the wall that turns on the low light of the corner table lamp, illuminating black leather couches, hardwood floors, and bare walls. I’m not much for decorating.
Chelsea closes the door behind us, and I toss my keys on the table. I turn around to her, asking, “Would you like somethin—”
But I never finish the sentence.
Chelsea collides with me, arms around my neck, practically crawling up my torso, pulling me down and locking our lips. It’s totally fucking unexpected.
And a total fucking turn-on.
Her breasts press against my chest, her hips gyrate against me—providing glorious friction against the straining boner trapped between us. And her mouth—god—she sucks at my tongue, nibbles on my lip, traps it between her teeth and tugs, one small step above pain that threatens to make me lose my goddamn mind.
When her hand skims down my shirt and rubs against the fabric-covered outline of my cock, I groan. “Jesus, slow down.”
She pulls back, panting, “I don’t want to slow down.”
And she sounds so sure—confident and whimperingly needy at the same time—my heart starts to pound out of my chest.
“Okay.”
My hands dive under her dress, grasping hot, firm thighs, just below her ass, and I lift, wrapping those perfect legs around my waist. Her fingers burrow through my hair as I angle my head, covering her mouth with mine. When I return the favor—sucking and biting, scraping those plump lips with my teeth like I’ve been dreaming about for weeks—a sharp keening sound vibrates from Chelsea’s throat, and I swear to Christ, I almost come right then and there.
She lifts herself up and down, writhing against my stomach, as I stumble like a drunk toward the bedroom.
“Clothes,” I grind out between kisses. “Too many clothes.”
She nods, laughing, trying to drag my jacket off my arms while they’re holding her up—which ends up pinning my elbows to my sides, like I’m a hockey player who’s about to get his ass kicked in a brawl. Finally, we make it to my room. Chelsea’s fingers span my jaw as she kisses me, slipping her legs out from around me, sliding deliciously down my front to her feet.
I rip my jacket the rest of the way off, then I breathe deep, trying to regain at least some finesse. My palms slide up her arms, my lips cover that perfect pulse point on her neck, and a moan echoes through the room.
I just can’t tell if it’s mine or hers.
I taste her skin with my tongue, licking and sucking—and she’s warm, so fucking sweet. Without looking I manage to unzip the back of her dress. She lowers her arms, letting it drop to a puddle at her feet. And then I definitely look.
I step back from her, feasting with my eyes. All that smooth, rich skin beckons, aching to be touched, broken up only by bits of sheer black lace. Fuck, I can see her nipples through her bra—hard, pert, pink points. Her waist is flat and narrow, its circumference spanning both my hands, with a hint of toned muscle beneath soft skin. Her legs—Christ—long and lean and silky, like I knew they would be. And at the juncture of her thighs, the tiniest dusting of an auburn landing strip teases through the lace of her panties.
I want to rub my face against that softness, I want to rip that lace with my teeth and fuck her with my tongue until my name is the only word she remembers.
“You’re perfect.” My voice is low and ragged.
She meets my eyes; hers are impatient. “And you’re overdressed.”
My mouth twitches with a smirk, and I hold her gaze as I slowly unbutton my shirt. Her eyes go from ice to blue fire as I skim the shirt off my arms and drop it on the floor. She stares at my tattoos, the bulk of my biceps, wetting her lips with that tasty pink tongue. Still smirking, I unclasp my pants and drag the zipper down. My cock springs free from his confines, stiffly bobbing just a bit, and a moment later my pants and black boxer briefs pool on the floor too.
I stand before Chelsea naked and more consumed with lust than I have ever been in my entire fucking life. Her gaze continues to roam and it feels intense. Like a stroking hand—over my corded neck, across my chest, around the ridges of my abs, down the happy trail. When she gets to my cock, jutting out thick and ready, her eyes widen.
And then . . . she giggles.
Not exactly the reaction I was expecting.
“Something funny?”
Chelsea’s flush deepens until her cheeks are crimson, and she giggles again.