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"After the pillow mishap, they plied her with wine, and she fit in just fine."
"Pillow mishap," he repeated, brows knitting. "What'd she confuse a throw pillow with a toss pillow?"
"A throw pillow is a toss pillow."
"Ah, one of those American things. Like soda and pop and sneakers and tennis shoes."
"And some people call them trainers."
"Well, those people are wrong," he decided, shaking his head. "Did ya have fun?"
"I did," I admitted, oddly unable to make eye-contact as I said so.
"You're gonna like the rest of them," he informed me.
"The rest of who?"
"Well, ya kinda met the Girls Club 2.0. The OGs are a bunch of badasses too."
"Like Lo?" I asked, knowing enough about the players in town to know that the leader of Hailstorm had shacked up with the vice president from The Henchmen.
"Lo. Jstorm. Maze. All certifiable badasses. Summer is pretty handy with a gun too. And then there are the girls who aren't shacked up with Henchmen, but are connected. There's a lot of 'em. They're prolly gonna wanna make ya take Krav Maga lessons and shit. Seems to be like a hazing ritual for them. Take ya up to Hailstorm, and beat the shit outta ya."
"Is it weird that I like that idea?"
"Don't think I'd be half as into ya as I am if ya weren't weird like that, duchess," he declared, hopping down, making his way to me.
Stalking his way to me was more like it.
Because I very much felt like prey to some wild animal, all languid, primal grace, dangerous promise. "And make no mistake, Lou, I am into ya. More than I thought I was capable of," he added, getting close, hips pressing into mine, pushing my ass hard against the door behind me. His arms raised, hands grabbing either side of the doorframe. "Think it's time we stop acting like we are just some neighbors, friends. We both know its more than that," he told me, chin ducked so he could keep eye-contact. "Ya with me?"
The breath I took was oddly stressed, giving away the mix of desire and uncertainty flooding my system.
But when my mouth opened, it gave the answer I felt right down to my bones.
"I'm with you," I agreed, my hands raising to settle at his hips.
"Thank fuck," he rumbled a second before his lips crashed down on mine.
He'd been right.
We had been acting like friendly neighbors, like old friends. Ever since he'd gotten back after the whole club business thing.
I didn't know if it was because my body was out of commission, and he didn't trust himself to just try to make-out, or what. But we hadn't kissed. Hadn't had any kind of sexual contact since then.
But there was nothing neighborly or friendly about the way my body reacted immediately to the contact. About the way a low, pained little whimper escaped me at the brush of his scruff, scraping over my sensitive skin, at the way his lips bruised into mine with reckless abandon.
An oppressive, undeniable pressure plagued my lower belly, a clawing, eager churning of desire. It was the same thing that made my breasts swell, made my nipples tweak and ache for touch, shifting so they pressed into the hard line of his chest.
My pulse thrummed in unexpected places - my throat, wrists, temples, between my thighs, my blood surging with need for release, with need for more, for all he could give me.
His teeth snagged my lower lip, sinking in to the point of pain, dragging a shocked gasp from me, giving him the access he was after, his tongue shifting inside to claim mine.
His arms left the doorframe, one going to the back of my neck, crushing into my skull with his own utter lack of control. The other found the sliver of skin where my shirt had slid up, pressing into the overheated flesh, just a chaste, but possessive, contact.
My own hands couldn't seem to contain themselves, curious and searching, moving from his hips and up the firm line of his back, feeling the notches of his spine, realizing I had never noticed something like that before, making it feel oddly intimate to do so now, even though my fingers were brushing the material of his tee and not the flesh beneath. They curled into his strong shoulders for a long moment before drifting back down, sliding lower than before, sinking into his firm ass, using it to pull his pelvis to mine, needing the contact like I needed my next breath, moaning against his mouth when his hard cock pressed into my stomach, confirming he was as lost in the moment as I was, even if all we had done was kiss.
For us, that seemed to be enough.
"Fuck," he growled when my body arched, pressing my chest more firmly into his, his lips breaking from mine, leaving them feeling swollen, tingly, more sensitive than they ever had before. "Ya are gonna fucking kill me, duchess," he told my neck, his lips and scruff branding the skin, lips sinking in, sucking in a way that said I'd have marks there. Marks meant to stay in youth, marks that I oddly wanted, like I needed proof in the aftermath of what had happened between us, like I wanted to be claimed as his in a visible way, a thought that normally would have made me shrink away, run as fast as I could. But with him, yeah, I couldn't seem to stop the odd desire to claim and be claimed, to have the world know about what was between us, this wild, uncontrollable thing neither of us planned on, but had no strength to fight.
