Page 49 of Clinically Awkward

I kissed him. Hard. Silencing whatever rational thought he was about to voice. Because I didn’t want rational. I didn’t want careful. I wanted this. I wanted him. I reached for the hem of his shirt, and he helped me pull it off. Our movements were uncoordinated, elbows bumping, and when it finally came free, we were both laughing again. “Smooth,” I said.

“Shut up,” he said, but he was grinning.

And oh.

Oh.

I had seen him in scrubs. I had seen him in casual clothes. But I had never seen him like this. Bare-chested. Muscular. A light dusting of hair across his chest, trailing down his stomach, disappearing into the waistband of his sweatpants. I ran my hands over his chest, felt the hard planes of muscle, the heat of his skin, the rapid beat of his heart under my palm.

“You’re staring,” he said, voice rough.

“You’re beautiful.”

He laughed. A short, breathless sound. “I’m really not.”

“Shut up.”

I kissed him again, slower this time, deeper, as my hands explored his chest, his shoulders, the strong column of his neck. His hands found the clasp of my bra and he fumbled with it for a second.

“Fuck,” he muttered against my mouth. “How does this⁠—”

I reached back and helped him, and we both laughed as it finally came undone. He slid it off my shoulders, and I let it fall. He pulled back and looked at me. “Fuck me,” he breathed, then his mouth was on my breast, tongue circling my nipple, and I gasped, my head falling back, my hands gripping his shoulders.

“Quinton—”

He sucked hard, and I moaned. Actually moaned.

His hand found my other breast, thumb brushing over the sensitive peak, and I rocked against him again, feeling the hard ridge of his erection pressing against my pussy through our clothes. The friction was good but not enough. Not nearly enough.

“Need.” I managed. “I need⁠—”

“What?” His voice was rough, breathless. “What do you need?”

“More. Everything. You.”

He stood, lifting me with him, and I wrapped my legs around his waist. He took two steps toward the hallway and stumbled, catching himself against the wall.

We both froze. Then we started laughing. Real, genuine laughter that shook both our bodies.

“Smooth,” I said.

“I’m a little drunk,” he admitted.

“Just a little?”

“Okay, a lot drunk.”

“Me too.”

“Good.” He kissed me again, pressing me against the wall right there in the living room. “Then we’re both making equally terrible decisions.”

“The best terrible decisions.”

His hands slid down to my ass, gripping, lifting me higher against the wall, and I could feel every inch of his hard cock pressing against me. I ground down against him, and he groaned.

“Fuck, Viv.”

“That’s the idea.”