“Tonight’s important,” she reminds me as I tug them down over her thighs, her knees, her ankles. And in the back of my mind, I know that. Jonathan Hess is waiting inside Mayhem with paperwork, but Jonathan Hess can wait. If Kit and I go in now, neither of us will be able to concentrate. We’re doing this for the show, the crowd, the band.
Or at least that’s what I tell myself as I tug her panties down with her jeans. She kicks them off the tips of her black-painted toes, and I step back between her legs. “I love you,” I say as I palm her ass in both hands, dragging her to the edge of the counter.
“I lov—” Her voice catches as I sink deep inside her, and she finishes with a low, sexy, “Shawn.” Her moan is as deep as the path I pave inside her, her dull nails scratching over my scalp with every single inch. I peel them away and kiss the calloused pads of her fingers one by one, each lingering touch of my lips making her wetter until I’m seated all the way inside her, until I’m just as breathless as she is. My forehead glues itself to the shoulder of her T-shirt because she just feels so. fucking. good. She feels fucking amazing.
How we are now is nothing like how we were our first time. Now, when she says my name, I know she means so much more than Shawn Scarlett. When she looks into my eyes, she’s seeing more than her own name in lights.
I should’ve seen it back then—the way she looks at me, the way she probably always has—but I was a blind man until she walked away . . . two, three, four times.
My fingers hook under the hem of the shirt separating me from her skin, and I impatiently tug it over her head. Then I’m reaching for her bra, she’s grabbing at my shirt, and we’re locked in a battle of wills as I try to strip her of her clothes at the same time she tries to strip me of mine. Both of us end up laughing, and I eventually let her win.
She continues giggling until I cup her breast in my palm and slide my thumb across her nipple. And at the quiet gasp that grabs her, at the look in her eyes—that dark, bottomless look that spells desire in the black of her gaze—I bend down and suckle a pink tip between my lips. Her back arches, her thighs squeeze, and I . . . I’m barely holding it together as her pretty little nipple pebbles beneath my tongue.
I take my time—because I have to with her if I’m going to last—teasing one blushing pebble and then the other before teasing her by asking, “How are we going to celebrate tonight?”
The soft moan that purrs from her mouth is more than I can handle. With her nipple still perked between the seam of my lips, my eyes travel up over the delicate curve of her neck, the line of her chin, the pink of her cheeks. Under thick lashes, she stares down at me, and I make a show of parting my lips and tracing my tongue over her in long, slow strokes that she watches for only a moment before her eyes flutter closed.
“Open them.”
With her half-lidded gaze watching my every move, I make a feast of her. I nibble and flick and suckle until she’s coiling tight around me, and then I bury my fingers in her hair and pull her to my mouth.
I lose track of time, of where we are, of everything but the way she kisses me senseless as I thrust into her over, and over, and over. She’s so tight—her heat around my cock, her fingers on my back, her lips over mine. I’m so fucking lost, I don’t even know how I keep moving inside her, except that I’m desperate—desperate to hear the sounds she makes when she comes for me, for the way her pupils swallow her irises and she looks at me like she wants to do it all over again.
“Fuck,” I say, trying to slow my pace because I’m about to come undone.
“Don’t stop,” she begs, and when she asks me like that—like she needs me to keep feeding myself inside her—there’s no way in hell I’ll ever deny her.
I say a silent prayer that she’s closer than I am, because God, I’m going to come soon if she doesn’t—
A heavy moan rumbles in my chest when she clenches around me, her fingers digging into the coiled muscles of my back as I follow her over the edge not even a full second later. I empty into her as her insides hug me tight, squeezing and milking and unraveling me until I can’t even think.
Kit is moaning into my ear, saying my name and stringing curse words together, but I can’t stop—I push into her until I have absolutely nothing, nothing left to give. And even then, I want to give her more. I want to give her everything.
When I kiss her, she must be able to tell how badly I want to take her again, because her tired voice reminds me, “We are so fucking late.”
IT TAKES ME a pathetic amount of time to pull myself together and collect our clothes from the floor, but then Kit and I get dressed and straighten her sexed-up hair as well as we possibly can. When we finally make our way inside Mayhem, hand in hand, Adam smirks his face off at me. I’ve spent most of my life lecturing him about being on time, but now, he’s the one to say it—“You’re late.”
“Really late,” Mike emphasizes.
“Good,” I say. “John can wait.”
“Yeah,” Joel chides, “because I bet that’s why you’re late. And not because you and Kit were busy fu—”
Dee and Peach both elbow him in the ribs, and he grunts as he doubles over.
“You look great,” Dee tells Kit, and Kit grunts a little too, which pulls a smile onto my face. She’s friends with the girls, but she’ll never really be one of the girls, and that’s just one of the things I love about her. She’s hot as hell, and she knows it, but she doesn’t flaunt it—because she doesn’t need to. Even when she’s wearing one of my baggy T-shirts, an old pair of jeans, and an oversized flannel, she looks like a siren, smiles like a siren, laughs like a siren.