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“I can walk,” I mumble as he starts toward the house.
“No, you can’t.”
I open my mouth to argue but fall silent when my gaze lands on his ass in those jeans. Jesus, I need to rein it in. But I don’t. I keep staring as he carts me through the house and upstairs to his room.
“How often do you drink?”
“Sometimes.” Never. The last time I drank was before I started medical school. Hangovers and six am finals didn’t mix well.
He changes direction, sending the room spinning in a blur of colors. “So you’re gonna throw up.”
“Only if you keep throwing me around like a sack of rice.”
The door to the bathroom creaks open. He places me on the cold tile beside the toilet, then sinks to the floor beside me and puts his back to the wall.
“What are you doing?” I ask, eyeing him.
“Making sure you ring the toilet. I’m not cleaning puke off my floor.”
“I’m not sick.”
“Give it time, doll.”
Stupid butterflies erupt in my stomach. I shouldn’t like it when he calls me that. I’m sure he means it in some kind of condescending way, but it’s all Southern and rough—and he’s all Southern and rough.
He rubs a hand over his chest, drawing my attention to the muscle stretching his shirt. Curling into that firm chest seems like a really good idea. I scoot across the tile and wedge myself between his legs, and the second my cheek hits the soft material of his shirt, I agree it is a good idea. Just like sniffing his shirt is.
“Jesus Christ…” he says, sweeping a hand over my hair.
And I swear, I think the miserable bastard almost laughs. This feels safe, and like the only good thing I have, so I embrace it, enjoying how the lazy sweep of his fingers through my hair soothes me.
“If you throw up on me, Tor. I swear to God…”
I tilt my head on his chest until his full lips come into my line of sight. The thought of kissing him tiptoes through my mind. I want to fall into his lips like they’re the cure for all the wrong in my life. That headline creeps back into my mind, and I don’t want to give in to any of that again today. I just want to be in this moment, right here, with him, pretending nothing is wrong and this is right. I fist his shirt, pulling his scent deep into my lungs. “Distract me.”
His thumb drags across my bottom lip. “I really don’t think you’d like that….”
From the fire that simple touch elicits, I think I’d like his form of distraction very much. “How do you know what I like?” My fingers play along the hem of his shirt before sliding underneath and scratch my nails over Jude’s firm stomach. His head drops back against the wall on a sexy groan. I have no idea what I’m doing—none—but I am committed to riding this intoxicating wave of want, willing to drown in it if need be.
I make another pass over his abs, creeping closer to the waist of his jeans before he latches on to my wrist.
“You should stop.”
His burning gaze meets mine, full of such sweet promises, and while I know he’s right, all I can think about is what his lips would feel like pressed to mine if he talks dirty while he fucks, and above all else, I wonder what his face looks like when he comes. So I ignore his warning and shift from the floor onto his lap, straddling him. His hands go to my hips, guiding me as I grind against the hard bulge in his jeans.
“Tor…” There’s an edge of restraint to his voice, but the friction is too alluring to stop, so I keep going. “This is so fucking wrong...” he mumbles against my skin, his hold growing tighter while his teeth skim my throat.
It is wrong. Everything that’s happened since I was dragged into this house is wrong, but something about Jude feels right. Maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe I’ve finally snapped, but this right here—his heavy breaths on my skin, the way his big hands make me feel so small and breakable, the pleasure trickling through my body at his touch—it’s intoxicating.
On a groan, his hips buck up, fucking me through his clothes until I’m lost in him. A warm blanket of bliss falls over me. My muscles tense, and an orgasm slams into me with such force, it steals all air from my lungs. I drop my head to the crook of his neck on a heavy breath as the feeling ebbs away. But I want more. I want all of him. “Still want me to stop?” I whisper, going for his belt.
He grips my wrist, stopping me. “Yes.”
And that stings. It shouldn’t, but it does. Setting my jaw, I push off of him and stumble into his bedroom, annoyed at myself for my lack of control and even more annoyed when I collapse on the bed, and the room spins. I didn’t want to be Sarah Jones, but I’m not even sure I’m Victoria Deveaux anymore.
