“I’m not”—another gasp—“perfect.”
Jamie shook his head as his fingers gripped the back of her neck, gentle but firm pressure that forced her to lift her chin and look at him.
Her lips parted on a gasp.
“You are to me,” he said, voice like iron.
Shifting to her breasts, Jamie’s massive hands worked her until her head collapsed backward and she unleashed a low, rumbling moan. This only invigorated his tactics.
His thumbs slowly circled each nipple until they were pleasingly tender, and the strangled words coming out of her mouth sounded closer to the gibberish Missy Elliot perfected in “Work It.” Dragging her higher, Jamie alternated between pulling and lightly twisting, based on what made her arch into him.
“That’s it, Bee. Keep moaning for me. Do you know what you’re doing to me? Fuck, I?—”
Suddenly, her hands had a mind of their own, and it even took her by surprise when she found one massaging his crotch. The other squeezed his ass.
“I think I have an idea.” She grinned.
Head bowed against her chest, Jamie shuddered as his thick erection rocketed into her palm, heavy and straining through his jeans. She couldn’t wait to feel him inside her.
Brinton squeezed him there, hoping he’d take the hint.
“Such a good girl,” Jamie groaned decadently. He tugged her ponytail again, and her belly clenched with satisfaction.
She was a feminist, dammit. But the way the words dripped off his tongue, viscous andvital.A new kink unlocked. Brinton made a note to unpack this when she wasn’t preoccupied with such an excellent bulge.
“Always fucking surprising me,” he murmured against her throat, hips still rocking. He steadied a hand against the cold brick. His other greedily squeezing her breast.
“Oh my God, Jamie,” she whispered back, knotting her hands in his T-shirt. She slipped one beneath to explore his lean stomach, which she hadn’t stopped obsessing over, and traced her fingers through the soft hair leading into his waistband.
“Say it again,” he said. He nudged her legs apart with his broad thigh.
Brinton moaned his name as his palm settled between her thighs, which trembled on contact. He stroked her as if by memory, knowing exactly which strings to pluck, how long to hold each pulsating note.
“I’m desperate to feel how soft and wet you are,” he gritted out. Through clipped breaths, he watched her buck against his palm, frantic enough that she now craved the bite of rough denim against her damp, sensitive skin. Anything to get her closer toletting go.
“So wet,” she whispered, the last ounce of reservation leaving her body.
Jamie’s lips parted into a satisfied smile. His eyes were heavy-lidded, like he was in a sensation-fueled daze. Like he could savor her like the smoothest Tennessee whiskey.
The whole scenario was a lucid dream: she, a hot mess, was about to have sex with a ruthlessly hot man. In a back alley that smelled faintly of Nashville hot chicken.
Fuck it, it’s fine!
“Do you know how long I’ve wanted this?” Jamie slipped his hand from her thighs to cradle her face.
His kiss was so tender she almost forgot that she wanted him to yank off her clothes. Almost.
“Hmm,” she hummed against his lips. “After I smoked you in cornhole?”
He laughed. “No, way before that.” Jamie pulled back but still cupped her jaw with both hands. “The second I held you on that red carpet. Couldn’t get you out of my head. Still can’t.”
“Ah, maybe you should talk to somebody about that,” she said, grinning.
He reached for her shorts and popped the top button. “Yeah? Sounds like the best problem to me.” His fingertips teased the open edge. Jamie’s thumb traced across her navel, stopping at her lacy panty line.
There was a question in his eyes.
Yes, she could live in the moment. She could be a little reckless. She could let Jamie Crawford Jr. dick her down beneath the neon lights.
