It really was a fantastic cock, but that was beside the point. Shit was about to hit the fan.
Kline’s lips found mine and I felt his smile against my mouth.
Devious bastard.
Trailing his fingers down my belly, he found the spot where I was still slippery and hot. He didn’t waste any time, two fingers sliding inside of me while his thumb rubbed my clit.
Seriously? How was he even thinking about getting me off at a time like this?
But did I stop him? Nope. My heart pounded in my ears, the needy, orgasm-driven side of me too focused on what he was doing. I wrapped my legs around his hips like the true hussy I was. If we were going to be Bonnie and Clyde tonight, I sure as hell was going to enjoy the ride.
A few seconds later, he floated us to the top, our heads peeking above the waterline, our lungs dragging in much-needed air. The coast was clear, the mystery person no longer in sight. The lights were off, the doors were shut, and Kline was still finger-fucking me, seemingly unfazed by our almost arrest.
“Sweet, dirty, wild girl,” he whispered in my ear, picking up the pace. “Even when we’re thirty seconds away from getting arrested, you still let me slip my fingers inside your *. You like this, don’t you? You love being bad just for me.” He licked the water from the curve of my breasts.
I moaned, my teeth finding his shoulder and biting down.
“Yes, just like that. Christ, baby, when you catch fire, you motherfucking burn.”
Hot damn, Kline Brooks was a certified, class-A, deserves-the-major-award dirty talker. His words served their purpose, pushing me straight over the edge and spurring my brilliant response.
“Ho-ly fuck.”
Monday night rugby practice was gearing up, but my mind was still on the weekend—laughter and sexiness and a Benadryl-fueled trip through an allergic reaction. The mixture of all three had me smiling to myself.
Georgia Cummings was quickly becoming one of my favorite people. She made me feel high on life and like the world’s biggest idiot all at once.
Curiosity about Rose’s weekend was the only thing that kept me from thinking about how close I’d come to never experiencing what I had for the last week. Because I wouldn’t have traded the last seven days for anything, even if it were to come to an abrupt end tonight. The memories would have been worth it.
Take note, friends. Don’t close off any one section of your life from possibility. Fate gives us chances, but we’re the ones who have to take them.
A touch of the icon brought the TapNext app to life. Realization swallowed me with an unexpected sense of accomplishment. This thing was my baby. I’d nurtured it, grown with it over the years like a close friend. I’d watched it make mistakes, veer off the path to greatness, but I’d pulled it back and I was proud of what it’d become. A place where people could find almost anything. A place where people who were lucky found something worthwhile like I had.
BAD_Ruck (6:15PM): Hey, Rose. You busy? I’m just curious how the date went. I didn’t get to check in with you over the weekend.
I stared at the message window, waiting to see if she would reply. I was just about to give up waiting when the little bubbles popped up on the screen.
TAPRoseNEXT (6:17PM): If avoiding contracting bubonic plague from the passenger next to me can be considered busy, then sure. I’m just on the train on my way back from work.
BAD_Ruck (6:17PM): And the date?
“Put your phone down, K. Everyone is waiting on us,” Thatch shouted.
I looked up to find the team captains still in the middle of the rugby field, known as a pitch, chatting, but I tossed my phone down anyway. Any amount of dawdling would only be cause for Thatch to publicly bust my balls. As my best friend of more than a decade, he had too much ammunition and a specially made gun for the job.
I broke into a jog for extra measure, joining the group of no-good assholes I called my teammates. Sponsorship wasn’t necessary for obvious reasons, but we played the league on the straight and narrow, using businesses to sponsor the team like everyone else. I’d volunteered Brooks Media, but with a dating site being one of the main focuses of the company, that had resulted in a resounding, “Veto!”
Instead, Wes’s restaurant, BAD—a fucking joke of a name for all the success he had—was our sponsor and earned our team as a whole the moniker “BAD Boys.” But because everyone thought they were fucking cute, that wasn’t enough, and the trio of Thatch, Wes, and I were forever dubbed the Billionaire Bad Boys. It was there to stay. Trust me, I’d been trying to shake it for years.
“We’re skins,” John announced to the informal huddle when he came back from the captains’ meeting.
“Fuck,” Thatch breathed, rolling his head in distress for some reason.
“What’s the matter, Thatch?” Wes asked. “Afraid one of the boys is going to pull out your titty ring?”
“Blow me, Torrence.”