This is worse than kissing her in my home or on the practice field, worse than fucking her senseless in her room, worse than seeing her in that pool last night and struggling to hide the discomfort in my slacks.This is public and reckless and impossible to hide, and I know damn well that the rest of them can see us.
But fuck, I don’t want to hide it. And that’s how I know I’m in real trouble.
The song changes, and another starts. I should step back.
I don’t.
Instead, I nip at her earlobe, gently catching the latch of her earring before letting go. “Come back to the room with me,” I murmur.
Her body stills in my hands. I can hear her breath, can feel the slight shift beneath her ribs as she inhales, likely thinking over the exact same things I'd thrown out the window moments ago.
Her face turns just enough that I can see her from the side, her eyes dropping to my mouth.
“Okay,” she breathes.
No toying with me. No hesitation.Justokay.
We separate enough to walk, but not enough for it to feel innocent. I take her hand because I want to and simply don't care anymore, leading her toward the door with half the room probably watching, trying not to concern myself with the idea of passing the guys.
Cole leans back in his chair and catches my wrist as I pass, pulling me down toward him. “Good luck, Gray,” he taunts, keeping his voice low. Jackson snorts beside him, and Wade shoots me a glare that says,You better not be about to lose me one grand.
I don’t care.
“Fuck off,” I mutter, pulling myself from Cole's grip and leading Carly forward.
I don’t care about the bet.I don’t care about consequences.I don’t care that this is a bad idea or that I’m falling deeper into a hole I know too well.
I’m supposed to be getting a break this weekend from work, from pressure, from being the guy who always has to keep a grip on everything. But right now, I don’t want a grip on anything but her body.
I just want her.
The walk back to the room feels too long and no time at all. We take the elevator in silence, but she's close, her shoulder pressingagainst the center of my chest, my hand on her waist.The second the lock of the door clicks behind us in our room, my senses heighten.
Her scent hits me, her breathing more audible in the quiet room, my attraction to her nearly staggering me as she turns to face me.
I get one look at her flushed cheeks, parted lips, half-lidded tipsy eyes, and I don't hesitate. She’s in my hands, and I’m in hers. Her shoulders hit the wall behind her just as her fingers fist in the front of my sweater and haul me down.
My mouth meets hers like I've been waiting years, not weeks, kiss her again.
Her mouth is hot and desperate and open on mine, and I kiss her back just as hard, one hand on her waist, the other in her hair, pulling myself closer until there’s no room left between us at all.
She makes a broken little sound into my mouth that forces my blood to obey gravity and rush down.
“Fuck,” I mutter against her lips.
She answers by kissing me harder, her hands shifting, fingers tangling in my hair to keep me locked on her. I can taste that damn mojito on her tongue.
I hiss as I retreat just enough to look down at her, her fingers pulling at my hair to try to prevent me from moving. “Carly,” I say through gritted teeth, and she reluctantly loosens her grip. Her eyes are hazy and half lidded, but they’re focused — on me, only on me, as I grasp her chin. “How drunk are you?”
She laughs, the sound a little breathless. “Tipsy enough to be brave but not drunk enough to not know exactly what I’mdoing,” she answers, her fingers tightening again in my hair to try to pull me back down to her. “I want this. You. Stop stalling.”
That’s all the confirmation I need.
I haul her off the wall and fully into my arms, walking her backward toward the bed, my mouth meeting hers over the course of ten or so steps. My hands move everywhere — her waist, her ribs, the curve of her hips. The back of her legs hit the mattress and I lift, dropping her far enough back that her whole body is on the bed, and crawl over her, her body sprawled out on the white resort sheets with waves of brown hair fanned around her head like something out of a painting.
I yank her sweater over her head in one motion, then another for the tank top beneath, her lack of a bra hitting me somewhere low in the gut. She’s flushed, bare from the waist up, her chest heaving, and something fully primitive in me takes over.
Her hands move to my sweater, but I catch her wrists in one hand and force them down above her head, pinning them. My other moves down her body, over her chest, her breast, her stomach, before slipping around the curve of her waist and catching a fistful of her leggings at the back.
