But instead of looking at him like a person with a functioning frontal lobe, I finish my wine in one go, set the glass back down, and kiss him before I can talk myself out of it.
For a second, he freezes.
Shit.
Why am I kissing him? The guy is probably disgusted by me right now, and I’m throwing myself at him like a pathetic loser with a deeply concerning attachment style.
I’m about to pull back and bail, but then he responds. His lips part under mine, and his hand comes up to curl around the back of my neck.
Okay, so he’s not disgusted by me. I think.
The kiss deepens, and I try to put everything I’m too afraid to say into it. How much I want him. How scared I am of wanting him. How I’d take whatever he was willing to give me.
He makes a soft sound against my mouth, and my heart races. A beat later, he’s pushing me down onto the blanket, his body covering mine. My brain scrambles to keep up.
He’s on top of me, kissing me like he actually wants this, his hand sliding under my shirt to touch bare skin. He’s so big above me, pinning me to the blanket as his tongue traces the seam of my lips.
And then I feel it—the hard press of his erection against my hip.
Oh.
He’s already turned on. Did kissing me do that?
The thought sends a jolt of want through me so sharp my cock stirs in response, my hips lifting before I can stop them.
Connor groans into my mouth, and the sound hits low in my stomach.His hand tightens on my waist, holding me close as he rocks against me, subtle at first, then not subtle at all when I make another embarrassing sound against his lips.
“Fuck…”
He kisses me harder, his tongue sliding against mine, and for a second I forget we’re outside. In broad daylight. By a lake. Where my family, or any of the guests here for this deeply cursed birthday weekend, could walk by and see us.
But I don’t give a shit.
My hands slip under his shirt, finding warm skin and hard muscle, and God, he feels good. Too good. Like every part of him was designed specifically to ruin me.
He shifts his weight, pressing his thigh between my legs, and I gasp at the sudden pressure against my cock. My hips move on instinct, chasing more of it, and Connor answers by grinding down harder.
We’re making out like teenagers, grinding against each other through our clothes with no plan and even less dignity, and the worst part is how much I want to keep going. How good it feels to have him on top of me, his body heavy over mine, his hand on my hip, his mouth moving from my lips to my jaw to the side of my neck. Like this is already too much, and somehow not nearly enough.
His teeth graze the skin just below my ear, and I have to bite my lip to keep from moaning too loudly. His hand slides down my side, over my hip, fingers digging in as he rocks against me.
“Fuck,” I breathe again.
Connor stills for half a second.
“We should probably stop,” he whispers, even as my body arches into his. “Before someone comes by and gets an eyeful.”
I try not to groan with disappointment.
“You’re right,” I say.
He doesn’t move away.
Instead, he nips at my earlobe, and my whole body betrays me by pressing up harder against him.
“Connor,” I warn, though it comes out way too close to a plea.
“Sorry,” he says, sounding not sorry at all.
