I twitch, leaning into his touch, wanting, needing him more.
His lips part with a sigh, as if touching me is both a relief and a source of pain. Somehow my hand settles on his hip, the bone solid beneath his skin. He tenses, a visible clench that has his biceps bunching. The next instant, my fingers steal under his shirt.
His skin is hot, as if he’s burning up from within. My palm glides along rippling muscle, smooth and toned, the cotton of his shirt tickling the back of my hand as I go. He holds so still, when he shivers it’s an earthquake. My questing thumb finds his nipple, and he stops breathing altogether. The little nub of his nipple beneath my thumb turns me on so much, I bite my lip to keep from moaning. Oh, but it’s getting to him too. He swallows audibly, those little tremors within him growing stronger.
I press down hard.
With a choked cry, he stumbles forward, his forearm hitting the wall beside my head as he braces himself. Warm breath caresses my cheek, the sound of his panting filling my ears.
Shaking, Baylor stands there, so close that his heady scent and vivid heat envelop me. I draw that crisp, clean scent in, and grow lightheaded. Unable to resist, I flick my thumbnail over his nipple. He grunts, his hips jerking as if pulled on a string. And then he retaliates.
His long index finger curls around the strap of my top. For a moment, he simply runs his finger up and down the strap, toying with it, each pass drawing closer to my breast. Then he tugs, sliding the strap over my shoulder by agonizing degrees.
Oh, God. My lids flutter. I want to close my eyes but can’t. I’m stuck staring at his rapidly beating pulse, all of my awareness centered on the progress of my strap as it scrapes down my arm, peeling the top over the curve of my breast, which has grown heavy, aching. I don’t think I’ve ever been more conscious of my breasts, of my body.
The top slips further, exposing more skin.
Hurry, I want to cry. I’m shaking by the time the edge of my top catches on the hard bead of my nipple. Stuck.
We both seem to hold our breaths. Beneath my palm, his heart beats fierce and strong. I can feel his stare, covetous and hot. I want him to see me. I want to be exposed to him.
The sound of laughter drifts up, and the deep bass of music has the walls buzzing. Anyone could find us here, see him pulling down my top. As if he’s thinking the same thing, Baylor shifts his weight, sheltering my body from view with his own. That small gesture, his consideration, breaks my resistance. Biting my lip, I arch my back at the very second he tugs again. My nipple pops free.
Baylor makes a sound that’s guttural. His breath is a rasp in my ear as his big hand cups my breast. The pleasure of his touch is so acute, it’s a relief, and then it’s far from that. I ache more and so deep down that my sex clenches.
He doesn’t move, just stares at his tanned hand against the white my breast and my pink nipple jutting out just over his fingers, as if he’s trying to make sense of things. Or maybe he’s just savoring the moment. His tongue darts out as he licks his lower lip. Jesus, I want to lick it too. I hold still.
The blunt tip of his thumb brushes over my nipple. Once, twice, then presses down.
A bolt of hot, sharp pleasure shoots to the empty space between my legs.
On a cry, I sag, slipping down the wall, my knees knocked out from under me. But he’s there, wrapping an arm around my waist. He holds me up. Holds me still. Gentle fingertips bracket my jaw and tilt my head up. I meet his eyes. Lust there, dark like burnt sugar. His gaze settles on my lips, and his own part. He dips his head, his breath buffeting my cheeks as he comes for me.