by Nikki Duncan
He jerked his head to the side. “The floor. It’s still wet. If you slide off, you’ll get your clothes wet. You won’t be able to go to your meeting if your clothes are all wet.”
Christ, how many times could he say wet in one sentence?
“Right. Right. I knew that was what you meant.” She frowned. “How am I supposed to get up?”
“Hold on to me.”
With her body molded to his, he wrapped one arm around her waist while he pushed himself up off the floor with the other. She snaked her arms around his shoulders and held tight as he climbed to his feet.
Once upright, his head began spinning. Feeling dizzy, the room tumbling out of control around him, he stumbled, slamming her against the wall as he tried to regain his balance. Shit, maybe he’d hit his head harder than he first thought.
Madison gasped, and when her sweet, minty breath wafted before his nostrils all coherent thought fled. Her lush body fit so perfectly next to his, and her soft breasts were so hot against his chest that all he could think about was kissing her, having his way with her right here against the wall. Christ, what could one little taste hurt? One tiny fucking nibble…
As the bathroom faded in and out of existence, her voice sounded as if it were thousand miles away. He pushed against her, caging her with his body. Knowing he wasn’t thinking straight, he dipped his head, and even though she was speaking, saying something to him, he couldn’t hear her, not when his entire focus was on that sweet mouth of hers.
Before he could get his shit together, he closed his mouth over hers, and when he heard a heated groan, he wasn’t sure whether it was his or hers. He sank into her mouth, reveling in the delicious taste of her. With little finesse, he pushed his tongue inside to play with hers. So fucking sweet. Greed urged him on and his tongue slashed against her mouth, his cock aching to sink inside her wet heat and stay there for the rest of the day. Jesus, her mouth tasted like mint, cherry and sugar all rolled into one—the best thing he’d ever tasted.
Some part of his brain registered that her hands were on his body, touching, tugging at his shirt, pulling on his shoulders. Jesus, did this mean she wanted him as much as he wanted her? But when she raked her fingers through his hair and pain zinged through him, reality crashed over him like the cold water from her broken pipe.
He inched back and stared at her. When he saw the way he’d smudged her lipstick and mussed her hair, and noted the almost frightened look in her eyes, his heart raced. Okay, so apparently her hands were all over him because she was trying to push him away, not because she was eager to touch him. What the fuck was he thinking?
“Jesus, Madison. I didn’t mean—”
“Brad.” She carefully smoothed her hand over the back of his head. “I think you have a concussion.”