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.
Without thinking, I wrench my head to the side. “No. Not on the lips.” It hurts to say it because the greater part of me is screaming. Yes. Now. Please. But I can’t. A deep, undeniable instinct tells me that, if he kisses my mouth, I’ll lose all resistance to him.
He hesitates, his brow furrowing with his frown. His gaze darts over my face, going from my lips and back to meet my eyes. A growl of frustration escapes him as he swoops down. My heart leaps, but his mouth lands on my neck, just above my shoulder. And I can’t think any more. Just his lips touching my skin has me breaking out in goose bumps. He kisses my neck the way he’d kiss my mouth, open, wet, like he’s been hungering for this, waiting for this. Kisses me with anger. Like it’s a punishment for my refusal to let him have a proper kiss. Maybe it is, but it doesn’t matter because it feels so damn good that I’m not going to stop him.
Hard kisses rain down over my shoulder, along my chest, and he sinks to his knees as he goes. A brief, suckling kiss on my exposed nipple makes my entire body twitch, but he’s moving south, his hands caressing my sides, sliding over my hips. Calloused fingers trail up the backs of my thighs, gathering my skirt, lifting it up.
Oh, God. My breath hitches, an audible sound that catches his attention. Defiance is in his eyes as he glances up at me. I can stop him if I want to. The knowledge is thick and heavy between us. But I can’t move, much less protest. I’m so ready for him, I can’t stand it. If we move, if we stop now, it might all dissolve. Illicit excitement is a drug in my veins. The wall is cold against my heated shoulder blades as I lean into it, trying not to crumple. Still he watches me and inches the skirt up and up. My soaking panties are exposed.
I’m so wet there the air feels cold. As if he scents my desire, his nostrils flare, and he finally looks. He groans as though in pain. “Fuck. Holy fuck.”
My upper thighs are wet.
Fisting my skirt in one massive hand, he uses the other to ease my legs apart. I comply without thought. I want him to touch me so badly that I shake. My clit pulses in time with my heartbeat.
His fingers tug aside my panties before his thumb presses into my wet, swollen lips. I bite back a moan, as the world spins around me.
Baylor takes it all in, his thumb slowly stroking, slip-sliding through slick arousal. Holding my gaze, he leans closer, his lips nearly touching my aching flesh. “Stop me.”
My heart is in my throat. I want this so much, my voice is as rough as sand. “Stop yourself.”
He doesn’t. Doesn’t even try. Before I can take my next breath, his mouth is on my sex. White lights pop beneath my lids, and I groan low and long. Jesus. I can’t take it. The pleasure almost hurts.
Gritting my teeth, I grab the short, silken hairs on his head as if he can anchor me, keep me from spiraling into the dark vortex of need that’s pulling me down. But I can’t keep still. My hips rock against his mouth, the tight seam of my wrenched aside panties rubbing my ass in a tormenting counterpoint to his tongue.
“Yeah,” he whispers against my skin. “Fuck yeah. Ride my mouth, Jones.”
Crude words that make me burn hotter. Sweat trickles between by breasts. My thighs tremble, and my sex throbs. I’m whimpering, incoherent, my hips writhing. The hall is a dark tunnel, the party loud below us. Our exposed position has my heart threatening to pound out of my chest and highlights what he’s doing to me. The luscious wet sounds he makes, the little groans. The rough stubble on his jaw sanding my inner thigh, the heat of his mouth. He’s feasting on me. His big calloused hand holds my hips. I can’t get away. I’m his. And when his thick finger plunges inside of me, curling in towards some hidden, perfect spot as he sucks hard, I come with a suppressed scream that ravages my throat.
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.
His teeth graze the sensitive area low on my neck. When he bites down, sucking hard as he grinds against my clit, I come with bright and blinding brilliance.
As if I set something off, he goes wild, bucking and thrusting. His eyes meet mine, and my breath hitches. The way he looks at me, all heat and intensity. I know exactly what he’s feeling, because I need him with the same urgency. I dig my fingers into the tight globes of his ass. His entire body goes granite hard, straining against mine as he comes with a harsh cry, and his eyes do not leave mine until the last spasm goes through him.
Lax and sated, we melt into each other, our chests lifting and falling in a shared breath.
When he talks, his voice is coarse as gravel. “God, Jones. That was…” His voice fails, but his grip on me tightens. Like he’s not going to let me go.
Reality is a fall through ice into deep, dark water. I freeze in the aftermath. What the fuck have I done?
I’M STILL SHAKING when I get home. My hands are useless, fumbling with the button of my jeans, grasping and missing the taps before I manage to turn on the shower. Full-out cold.
I’m a wreck. My heart is beating like I’ve just done an hour of shuttle drills. And it doesn’t seem to want to slow down.
Icy water hits my overheated skin, and I hiss.
Holy hell, what just happened?
Anna Jones has wrecked me. Utterly.
Memories assault me, the pale, undulating length of her body arching up to mine; drawing her hard, luscious nipple deep in my mouth; the soft, warm weight of her breasts cupped in my hands. I groan. My knees actually go weak, and I have to lean against the tiles or risk falling over.
Water pours over my face and runs into my eyes before I squeeze them closed. But it doesn’t stop those images from playing. Her rounded thighs spread wide. For me. A small thatch of curls and plump, wet lips glistening. For me. I licked and sucked every inch of that prize. Her taste is still in my mouth.
“Shit.” My voice echoes in the shower.
And though goose bumps cover my skin, I’m hot again. And hard. The tip of my randy dick presses against the cold tiles, and I find myself nudging forward just to alleviate the pressure. Shit. I want her again. Now. Badly.
I don’t even try to stroke myself. It’s not going to help. The horny bastard wants Anna, not my hand. Besides, I cringe at jacking off to thoughts of her now like a pathetic beggar.
God, it was humiliating to watch the realization of what she did steal over her features and the horror creep into her eyes. She couldn’t get away from me fast enough. I’d sat back on my haunches like a moron as she wrenched up her top and scrambled off the sofa. Her panties were a lost cause, apparently, because she simply fled the room with a mumbled “Sorry—Bye” tossed my way.
She didn’t even let me kiss her. That burns the most. As if kissing me was so personal that she couldn’t bear it. As if she needed to relegate me to some random, near faceless fuck.
I groan again and run a hand over my face. My arms feel like lead, and I’m shivering. Slowly, I turn on the hot water and sink to the hard floor of the shower stall. I’ve just experienced the hottest, most erotic, life-changing sex of my life, and I don’t think I’m going to get a repeat. Tonight was obviously an ill-advised hook up for her. And I’m so screwed because it was the best thing that has ever happened to me.
IT DIDN’T HAPPEN. That’s what we’ll pretend. Flashes of Baylor rising over me, of his chest sliding against mine, his thick, heavy cock sinking… My steps wobble. Okay, it did happen, and I’m unable to pretend otherwise. But it doesn’t really count. It was a…a…cosmic blip, a slight detour from reality. It was a hook up. No more. No less. I can do this. I’ve had hook ups before. Wham, bam, thank you, man. Lust satisfied. Life goes on.
Taking a deep breath, I head down the hall toward my class.
Shit on a Popsicle stick. Baylor lounges against the door, one long leg crossed over the other, his arms lightly folded over his broad chest. My heart pounds like a frightened rabbit trying to spring from a fox.
He watches me, a small, smug smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Traitor that my body is, my pulse leaps at that smile. My mouth wants to smile back. I bite the inside of my lip. It gets worse as I draw up before him. I know him now. I know the texture of his skin, what his cock feels like deep inside of me, the sounds he makes when he comes.
“Hey,” he says.
My skin prickles. God, his voice. His voice whispering against my wet sex. Stop me. I swallow thickly.
“Hey.”
His smile grows. “I’ve been thinking about you, Jones.”
“Don’t strain yourself.”
“Such animosity.” A warm puff of air touches my cheek as he leans in, bringing that body of his way too close for my sanity. “I thought we were past that stage.”
I’m in my own personal hell because all I want to do is lick the side of his strong neck and dip my hand into his well-worn jeans and grab hold of what’s mine. I wrench my head back and glare, focusing on his chin because I can’t look at him in the eye. Coward. “You’re right. Let’s move on to the ‘never mentioning it or thinking about it again’ stage.”
Baylor frowns. “I don’t like that option.”
“I don’t care.” I give a pointed look at the door then his big, broad chest. “Do you mind moving out of the way? I want to get to class.”
He simply stands there, arms crossed in a way that does interesting things to his biceps and forearms, and scans my face. I still can’t meet his eyes, which annoys me.
“Are you embarrassed?” he asks in a lowered voice.
“No. Hardly.” Yes. Completely.
“You look embarrassed. You’re all flushed here.” He brushes a finger along my chee
k.
I bat his hand away. “I get flushed when I’m annoyed.”
His voice rumbles along my skin. “That isn’t the only time you flush.”
And now my knees are weak. I glance at him, see the heat and teasing light in his eyes, so I focus on his earlobe instead. A nice, innocuous earlobe. That I want to bite. “Is this your post hook up protocol? Bug the girl afterward? Do you need feedback or something to stroke your ego? Are you going to ask if the earth moved for me?”
He lifts up his hand and starts counting off points with his fingers. “I don’t need to ask that, Jones. We both know the earth fucking melted. I don’t have a hook up protocol. I’d make a joke about what needs stroking, but that’s too easy. Frankly, I’m disappointed that you left yourself wide open for that one.” He touches the tip of my nose, and that shit-eating Baylor grin grows. “I expected more of a challenge.”
“Gah!” I shove past him.
“‘Gah?’” He laughs, as I wrench open the classroom door. “Is that even English—?”
“Mr. Baylor,” Professor Lambert says in greeting, her pale eyes sharp with reprimand. “Miss Jones. So glad you two could make it. Would you please take your seats?”
I give her a quick nod and head for mine, utterly aware of every eye on Baylor and me as we walk down an aisle. As for Baylor, he is a presence I cannot shake. And my stupid body is humming as if it’s at its own, personal happy hour.
Class ambles along at an excruciating pace. Lambert is discussing Plato’s utopian ideal, and though I try to focus, my body is too attuned to Baylor to be successful.
“What say you, Miss Jones?”
The Hook Up (Game On Book 1) Page 5