I’m falling into him, and he’s sweeping me up, wrapping my legs around his waist as he stumbles into the room behind us. I’m too far-gone to care if anyone is inside. Cool, quiet darkness greets us.
We land on a couch, Baylor knocking things from it even as he sets me down. My nails clutch at his shirt, tugging it, desperate to get the thing off. I need to see him, touch his skin. With a muffled curse, he yanks the shirt over his head in one move, his hair tufting in wild angles as it comes away. One glimpse of his glorious chest, hard-packed with muscle and gleaming in the pale light from the outside street lamp, is all I get. Then he’s on me, his mouth at my throat, licking, kissing, sucking. Zeroing in on a spot that sends pleasure and heat skittering through my flesh. Fingers rake my shoulders, grab hold of my top and pull it to my waist. He eases back as he does this, his greedy gaze taking in everything. I lift my exposed breasts. An offering. A plea. I’ve become a wanton thing, needing his touch.
“Christ.” It’s a growl in darkened room. “You’re so...”
His head lowers, steamy breath buffeting my hard nipple, and then his hot, wet mouth draws me in. The way he goes at me. It’s almost lewd, his tongue sliding and flicking over my nipple as if he’s lapping up melting ice cream. I feel it to my core, as if he’s licking there too. His big, warm hand covers my other breast, kneading and shaping it with just enough force to have me restless and shifting beneath him.
When he plucks my throbbing nipple, I rear up, my hands finding his narrow waist, my mouth on the heated skin of his shoulder. He tastes of salt and smells of sex. My knuckles scrape on the buttons of his jeans as I tear at it. And then his cock is in my hand. I revel in the thick, satin heat of him, a pulsing living thing that twitches in my grasp, before his mouth returns to my neck, his hands grabbing for my skirt. Our heads bump, our breath coming short. We’re booth too greedy, too eager to touch each other.
My panties are wrenched off and cool air hits my exposed skin. Baylor rises up over me, his honed body a work of art in the weak light. His open jeans sag about strong thighs, the jut of his long cock just visible in the shadows. He’s reaching into his pocket, pulling a wallet out. His hands shake, the wallet threatening to fall as he struggles to get a condom packet free.
“Hurry.” My legs tremble, my sex so swollen it aches. “Now. Now.”
Cursing, he tears at the battered packet. My vision blurs, and I rub a boot-clad foot over his ass. He flinches as though burned, then rolls the condom on, canting his hips and holding the root of that big cock of his in one hand as he does it. God, the way he moves, so confident and just a bit dirty. I can’t wait any longer. I’m empty, so empty.
The hot skin of his chest presses against mine, his breath a rough, disjointed sound. Both of us groan as the blunt head of his cock pushes into me. And in, working his way deeper. Until I’m filled with him.
We still for a moment, centered on the feel of him pulsing inside of me. Inside me. Drew Baylor is inside me. It’s like a fever dream. Unreal, and yet it’s the most present I’ve ever been in my own flesh. And then he moves. Pumps hard and deep. Dream or not, it no longer matters.
Every time he thrusts, he makes a little helpless grunt as if he needs more, more. I understand. The thickness of his cock filling and emptying me, the silk of his skin sliding over mine, isn’t enough. I’m burning up, shaking with pleasure. I didn’t know it could be like this.
My hands clutch the shifting muscles of his back, pulling him closer. He trembles, his grip moving to my ass, holding it as he does what he wants to me. And I let him, because nothing has felt better.
“Jones,” he rasps in my ear. Needy. Dark.
So close. So close.