His gaze is straight ahead now. He’s pulling my jeans down, over my hips, and taking my drenched panties along with them. His nostrils flare and he sucks air through his teeth with every inch of skin he reveals. “Reach back,” he says, sending my jeans to the floor. “Hold on to the chair.”
I glance over to the door. “Rush. What about—”
“It’s locked.”
“You knew,” I say, coming undone before he even touches me. There’s just been too much need inside me, too much anticipation. “What might happen?”
His lust-filled eyes rise to mine. “It’s you and me, Ads,” he whispers against me, his breath fanning my wet, sensitive pussy. “We were combustible from the start.”
As his hands rake up my torso, his tongue lashes at the outside of my sex. I gasp and squeeze the leather chair.
“Oh, fuck, baby,” he says, squeezing my breasts in his large hands, rubbing his forehead along the top of my pelvis. “Nothing I loved more than going down on you.”
He licks all the way through my slit. From the entrance of my pussy to the swollen bud inside my folds. And as he circles and flicks and laps at me, he moans and rolls my nipples between his fingers.
I glance down, breathing fast, and watch him suck me, his gorgeous, full lips glistening with my juices. He’s so sexy, all that muscle and all that ink pressed up against me. I want him. All of him. Him inside me, him behind me, on top of me. So deep he can’t get out, ever, not until he forgives me.
I’m so swollen now, so open and ready and desperate to come. I writhe and buck against his mouth. I feel insane and happy, and like I’ll break apart. But I’m not ready to give in to what’s surging through me yet, what’s beckoning me closer. To the edge. To mind-blowing perfection. Because…what had he said? One last time? If I come, it’s over. We’re over. For good. I’ve said what I came here to say, told him the truth, told him what a stupid, scared fool I was, even told him my feelings for him haven’t changed.
His hands leave my breasts and slip down underneath his chin. He presses his thumbs into my flesh and spreads my pussy lips apart. Wide. So wide I jerk and cry out.
And then his lips cover my clit and he suckles me. Over and over, drawing my distended flesh into his mouth.
A low, pained, groan escapes my throat, and I know I’m done for. Crying out, grinding myself against him, I explode. Flashes of light hit the backs of my eyelids as I shake and buck against his mouth, coming, creaming, feeling desperate for something, someone—RUSH—to fill me even as I linger in the shocking delights of release. I feel tears at the back of my throat. Long held tears that I have always refused to shed. And I push them back. I don’t want him to see me cry, see me utterly wrecked.
Utterly vulnerable.
Not when he’s going to send me home.
Still gripping the chair so hard I’m sure my nails have left a mark, I watch, breathing hard as Rush drags slow, wet kisses all the way up my belly, my ribs, suckling at the tip of each breast before lifting his head and facing me.
His gaze bears down on me. Those incredible green eyes eating me up like he just ate my pussy. He looks lethal and beyond sexy. “Where’s your friend?” he asks me, though it comes out as more of a growl.
“Hotel,” I mutter.
I’m dying—DYING—to reach out and yank down his zipper like he yanked down mine, but when I do, when I try, he stops me. He puts a hand over mine and steps away.
Just that small rejection makes my insides bleed. He can touch me, pleasure me, make me come, but he doesn’t want my hands anywhere near him.
He reaches for my tank top, hands it to me. “Put this on. No bra.”
My hands are shaking from my orgasm and from my anger, but I do as he asks.
When the tank is over my head, he moves back into my airspace and cups one of my breasts through the thin fabric. Instantly, my back arches and I lean into his touch. As he runs his thumb over the hard tip, I tell myself I have no shame.
His nostrils flare and he looks at me with hooded eyes. “Do you want to go back to your friend, Addison?”
“No,” I say without a moment’s hesitation.
He grabs my bra and shoves it in his back pocket. “Good answer.”
Rush
She’s fucking unraveled me again. Screwed with my head again. Made me not only want her ass more than I’ve ever wanted it, but made me believe that maybe—shit, just maybe—there’s a possibility for…something. Clearly, I’m mentally fucked, because instead of putting her on the back of my bike and dropping her wherever she and her friend are hanging their hats, I put her on the back of my bike and set a course for home.
She’s wearing my helmet, and her arms are wrapped so tightly around my torso I sort of can’t breathe. But I don’t give a shit. The moon is full, stars are blinking hard and bright, we’re alone on the desert road, and I just can’t get there fast enough. Get my mouth on hers fast enough. Get my tongue back inside her fast enough. It’s a real fatal flaw with me.
My mom knew it. Knew I had no business slowing down. She named me Rush because of how I was born. I was her first baby, and I guess they say that first babies take forever. Not me. Twenty minutes from home to hospital to in her arms. And from that day on, it’s how I’ve lived my life.
As I take a tight curve, Addison squeals behind me and clings to my back like a terrified monkey. I could slow down, if I was a nice guy. Or shit, I could pull over to the side of the road, let her breathe for a second. But that might bring about some trouble. I’d probably be inclined to turn around and have her straddle me, wrap her legs around me as I drop her zipper again. And mine. Shit, we don’t need to get all the way naked. Not for me to slip inside. I know how wet she gets. I can still taste it.
I narrow my eyes and kick the chopper into high gear. I must be a fucking lunatic to be doing this. Or a masochist. Or shit, maybe both. But it’s been a dream of mine to have her at my place. Have her see it, walk around inside it. Without ever knowing that she was who I thought about when I designed it.
I pull off the main road onto a dirt one that stretches up a ways and meets with my actual driveway. I bought this piece of land on the second anniversary of Wicked Ink. We’d been doing really well, and I’d been dying for something all my own, deep in the desert. It took a good year to build the contemporary stone, metal and glass structure, but it was worth the wait.
I kill the engine under the steel carport, then wait for Addison to slip off before following her. She already has my helmet off by the time I face her, and it’s like holding back a bull when I see her bright eyes, flushed cheeks and sexy, just-fucked hair.
But her eyes aren’t on me, they’re combing the exterior of my house.
“Oh, Rush,” she breathes, sounding so entranced I feel a fucking kick in my heart muscle. “You designed this. I can tell.”
I don’t say a word. I think my throat’s not working right. Or maybe it’s my lungs. I just take her hand and lead her inside the house. My gut is doing the knot dance again because as she stares at all the glass and metal, brick and stone, I wonder if she likes it or is overwhelmed by it. The place is pretty modern, maybe even cold to some.
Standing in the center of the living room, staring out the wall of glass doors leading to the view of the Red Rocks in the distance, she turns to look at me. “It’s beautiful.”
The knot inside me unravels instantly and I find myself grinning like an asshole. I take her around, show her every inch of my digs, preen like a douche every time she oohs and aahs over my shit. God damn, I don’t want to be this guy, this guy who feels giddy-ass relief that his girl approves of his pad. Because A: I shouldn’t give a shit. And B: She’s not my girl anymore.