On Broken Wings

by Chanel Cleeton

  One was tall and lean, his face—well, fuck, there was no other word for it—he was beautiful. Tan skin, full mouth, blue eyes. Dark blond hair that begged for a woman to run her fingers through. Great hair. Perfect hair.

  I admired him for two point five seconds, and then he ceased to exist.

  The other one was not beautiful. He didn’t have pretty hair, or long lashes, or any shit like that. I wasn’t even sure his features really registered all that much before he was just there, standing in front of me, and everything else in the club disappeared.

  Dark hair. Dark eyes. Tan skin. Sexy mouth.

  He was tall—in my heels we were nearly even, which was saying something considering I was a few inches off of six feet and wearing a wicked pair of Choos. He was broad-shouldered and definitely built. He wasn’t dressed up—I doubted this guy even owned a polo—but he rocked his jeans and T-shirt. An expensive-looking, enormous watch that appeared capable of coordinating missions to the moon flashed on his wrist.

  His gaze ran over me, his mouth curving as his survey ended at the top of my head. I reached up to see if my hair was out of place and got a handful of something else instead.

  My cheeks flamed. The penis headband. Shit.

  I dropped my hand as though I’d been scalded.

  Act cool. Pretend you didn’t just grip the base of one of the giant pink phalluses currently bobbing on top of your head.

  His lips curved even more as he gave me the full punch of his amusement—gorgeous white teeth and a laugh I wanted to cloak myself in.

  He kept coming until his body was a breath away from mine. He was big enough that he blocked out the club around us, the scent of his cologne sending a little shock between my legs. I didn’t know what it was about that masculine scent, but some primal part of me that probably harkened back to days when men roamed around bare-chested carrying animal pelts on their shoulders liked it a hell of a lot. His head bent, his dark hair nearly brushing against my blond strands. I got a glimpse of his tanned neck, barely resisting the urge to bury my face there and inhale more of his delicious scent.

  I wasn’t much of a romantic—not with my track record, at least. I didn’t believe in love at first sight, but lust at first sight? That was a thing definitely happening all over my body tonight.

  “Please tell me you aren’t the bride,” he whispered in my ear, his lips teasing the sensitive skin there.

  I shivered, basking in that voice. It was gravelly, and growly, and I was pretty sure I was drenched.

  “I’m not the bride.”

  Our gazes met, his eyes darkening as soon as the words left my lips in a move that had me sucking in a deep breath, my lungs desperate for air. I didn’t know if it was the loud music, or the late night, or the tequila coursing its way through my body, or the stilt-like heels, or the fact that my ovaries exploded as he engaged all of my senses, but either way I was feeling more than a little light-headed and fighting the temptation to reach out and grab on to one of his impressive biceps to hold steady.

  He smiled and I might have had a mini-orgasm.

  “Thank fuck.”

  Thank fuck, indeed.

  He reached out, tucking a strand of hair that had escaped behind my ear. His hand grazed my cheek as he released me and I swayed toward him.

  I wanted to lick him, and bite him, and do all kinds of naughty things to that gorgeous body. Multiple times.

  “What’s your name?” he asked, interrupting my fantasies.

  “Jordan.” I held out my hand to shake and then froze, my hand halfway there. Smooth. You’re in a nightclub, not a freaking business meeting. To say it had been a while since I’d dated was a massive understatement. Plus, I’d have been lying if I didn’t admit I had blindingly horrible moments of awkward even on my good days. I pretty much lived in extremes. I either totally rocked it or epically failed, with very little in between.

  His mouth quirked up as he held out his hand. “I’m Noah.”

  Well, now I knew the name I’d be calling out in my dreams.

  Our palms connected, his hand warm against mine. I waited for him to let go, already mourning the loss of his touch. But he didn’t. He just stood there, holding my hand in the middle of the club, staring at me like I was not alone in these feelings.

  “It’s nice to meet you,” I squeaked. Really nice to meet you.

  The song changed and the club grew frenzied around us, and then he was pulling me toward him and I was dancing, Noah behind me, his big hands on my hips, fingers laced with mine, his body moving against me.

  Yes, please.

  For such a tall guy, he had good rhythm. Really good rhythm. I loved dancing, but I was more of a dance-alone or with-friends kind of girl. Most guys were pretty terrible dancers, and I hated having to try to match my movements to theirs, unable to let the beat of the song take over. Noah wasn’t like that at all. He molded his body to mine, letting me set the pace.

  And by the way he rolled his hips against my ass, he definitely had some moves.

  Holy hell.

  His hand drifted up my side, gathering my hair, fisting the ends. Arousal pulsed between my legs, the beat steady, strong, a slow ache. He pulled me back toward him, his hard cock pressing against my ass. A tremor ripped through my body as his fingers grazed my nape, tracing the skin there, my nipples tightening beneath the thin fabric of my dress. My body felt overheated, the music and alcohol flooding my senses. Around us, people danced, bodies rubbing against each other, mouths tangling, hands roaming. It was that point in the evening when inhibitions lowered, and it was Vegas—it was a night for letting go.

  Head bent, his arms wrapped around my torso, the curve of my breasts brushing against his muscular forearm. Another tremor throbbed between my legs. His lips grazed my neck, brushing over the sensitive curve where it met my shoulder. I bit back a moan.

  More.

  I leaned into him, reaching out, our fingers threading together, our hands joined. His body behind me called to mind other images—of me naked, on my hands and knees, while he drove into me.

  He was easily the hottest guy I’d ever seen, and tonight was quickly ranking up there with one of the more memorable evenings of my dating life.

  His hold on me tightened and another mini-spasm wracked my body.

  I turned in Noah’s arms, my breasts grazing his chest. His hands moved lower, grabbing my ass, hauling me toward him, his gaze on my mouth.

  I’d never been happier of my single status than I was now.

  NOAH

  Dibs had flown out the window. I didn’t know which girl Easy wanted, didn’t care. This one was mine.

  I feasted on her mouth. She tasted like tequila and mint, her lips soft and plump. Her tongue wreaked havoc on my sanity.

  I’d kissed my fair share of girls; drunken kisses in dark club corners weren’t anything new. But this—this was mind-blowing.

  The second I touched her, she lit up. Her hands pulled on my neck, her fingers threading through my hair, tugging on the ends, yanking me toward her as though she couldn’t get close enough. My hands cupped her ass, squeezing her through the thin fabric, loving how she squirmed against me, rubbing herself over my jeans and my hard cock.

  She was sex in heels, the kind of body that was all curves, made for a centerfold. The beauty mark just above her upper lip took hot to an all-new level.

  I released her mouth, kissing my way down her neck, my teeth scraping her flesh, my dick jerking with the moan that escaped her lips. I nipped her, running my tongue over her skin, the taste of her swirling in my mouth. Jordan gripped the back of my head harder, her body begging for more.

  No question about it, not only was she sexy as hell, but she liked to play. I’d just hit the motherfucking jackpot.

  I shifted so I was behind her again, my hands on either side of her hips, our bodies swaying in time
to the music. The girl was gorgeous—long blond hair, big tits, curvy ass, long, shapely legs shown off by the sexiest pink dress. Absolutely gorgeous. And the second our gazes had locked across the club, her brown eyes had looked at me like I was her favorite meal and she wanted me for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

  Done.

  My hands moved higher, pulling her tighter against me. Her neck arched, her head tipping into mine, and one of the pink penises hit me in the face again.

  I grinned. Fuck, she was cute.

  “Babe, gotta remove the headband. Don’t need pink dicks in my face.”

  Jordan turned to face me, locking her arms around my neck. Her cheeks turned a soft shade of pink and she nodded.

  I’d always had a weakness for blondes, and this girl had incredible hair. It fell down the center of her back in a mass of loose waves and curls. I set the headband on the table, my gaze on hers the entire time.

  At some point we’d stopped dancing, and now we stood in the club with our bodies plastered together, her arms around my neck.

  I stroked her hip, pulling her even closer. We danced for a long time, moving from song to song, our bodies matching each other’s rhythm like we’d been dancing together for years. I’d been exhausted, and with one kiss she breathed new life into me.

  I leaned down, my lips inches away from her ear, struggling to be heard over the loud music.

  “Do you want to get out of here?” I asked, her answer suddenly feeling like everything.

  I hadn’t come out looking to get laid, had honestly been about to call it a night, but the second I saw her, my plans for the evening became whatever put me in her orbit. I didn’t know where this was headed, but right now I was happy to follow her anywhere.

  She nodded, and a knot tightened in my chest as she linked hands with me and I led her off the dance floor.

  Chanel Cleeton is the author of the Wild Aces Romance novels, Into the Blue and Fly With Me, and the Capital Confessions e-book series, including Flirting with Scandal, Playing with Trouble, and Falling for Danger. She received a bachelor’s degree in International Relations from Richmond, the American International University in London and a master’s degree in Global Politics from the London School of Economics and Political Science. She’s also a graduate (survivor) of law school—she earned her J.D. from the University of South Carolina School of Law. A summer cruise in the Caribbean changed Chanel’s life when she met and fell in love with a fighter pilot. A happily ever after later, she’s currently living an adventure with her husband and three pups. Visit her online at chanelcleeton.com.

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