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My breath hitches as the stubble on his chin grazes my skin. “It’s…a party.”
“My party,” he murmurs, breath fanning my cheek, sending the pulse point in my neck, fluttering wildly.
I used to love it when he kissed me there. Flicking it with his tongue, before sucking on it gently and whispering his heart’s confession against my skin.
“Fuck,” he moans, “you smell the same. Like apples and jasmine.”
“And you smell drunk.”
Gripping the sink with his free hand, he pins me in place and looks up, locking his eyes on mine. Yesterday, Cruz could barely stand the sight of me. Now it seems he’s hell bent on invading my space and dominating my thoughts.
I shouldn’t be here right now. Cruz and I alone, one of us drunk, the other buzzed…it’s a recipe for disaster. Yet, when I see the weight in his eyes is the same that I see in my own when I look in the mirror, I don’t leave as I should. Instead, I reach up and touch his face.
He closes his eyes and leans into my touch, lips brushing my palm. His skin is warm and the feel of the muscle in his jaw ticking under my touch, sends everything I felt, all we shared, bubbling up into the here and now.
Love and loss. The thrill of firsts and the pain of watching him leave…. It’s too much. The aggressive bass from the musicdownstairs makes my still fragile heart and the brittle space between us feel like they’re about to shatter into a million pieces.
I can’t do this right now. I can’t go back to the past, while trying to make sense of what’s happening in my present. “Cruz, I have to go.”
“Why?” His eyes scream open. “So you can go to Royce?”
“What?” I drop both hands and straighten. “No. I just…”
“Come on baby,” he says with a caustic laugh, “you can do better than him. Let me call the football team up here. Maybe they can run a train and make you forget all about that spoiled prick.”
The venom in his words, paired with his steely gaze, sends my walls shooting back up, and my anger skyrocketing.
“Fuck you!” I shove him away from me. “You have no right to talk to me that way. Who I talk to or fuck, is none of your business anymore!”
His eyes flash and he grabs both of my wrists and pins them behind my back. He’s broader than before and his frame easily swallows mine.
“That’s where you’re wrong,” he growls. “Who you fuckismy business Ellery, because you’re mine.”
I look at him, defiant and furious. But greater than both, is my desire.
This is my kryptonite—rough play mixed with sweet kisses—and he knows it. It satisfied a craving in me only he once knew and satisfied.
I turn my head, not wanting my eyes to betray me, but when he parts my legs with his knee and rubs it against my pussy, the moan I let out does instead. The combination of friction and pressure sends heat surging through me and makes my clit pulse.
“You belong to me, Ellery,” he rasps. “It’s my sweat that’s etched into your skin. Every inch of your body knows only onetouch—mine.”
“And if you don’t want it anymore?” I ask with a shaky breath.
He grips my chin and turns my face back toward him. “Me wanting you was never the problem.”
His eyes are heated, our faces dangerously close, and when he slants his mouth over mine, everything fades and I am back in that summer, kissing him for the first time. His tongue slips into my mouth, caressing mine in slow, tentative strokes, and when my own reaches back in approval, he wraps one arm around my waist, and pulls me closer.
Like a match tossed onto wood doused in gasoline we explode, mouths devouring one another like two lovers, starved. Our bodies press against each other as our hands roam hungry and desperate.
“Fuck, I miss you,” he murmurs while hoisting me up onto the sink.
The familiarity of us slams into me, clouding my mind, making me want more. “Shut up,” I demand, wrapping my legs around his waist, as he angles my head to kiss me deeper.
It’s been so long since I’ve been touched like this, and I want to feel every inch of this body that once commanded mine. Running my hands under his shirt, he has more muscles than before, and they ripple as the pads of my fingertips explore his chest.
“We shouldn’t be doing this,” he pants, as he runs both hands up my torso; thumbs pushing under my shirt and brushing the lace of my bra. “You shouldn’t be here.”
He’s right. We shouldn’t be. I shouldn’t be because I swore to myself the night he broke my heart, that I would never let Bennett Darcy de la Cruz near it again. But I can’t stop kissing him. I can’t stop wanting this.
