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He would’ve sworn he lowered his head forever. She closed the distance between them, fisting a hand in his hair to bring him the rest of the way. Their mouths collided, hungry, seeking. No finesse, no artifice. Just all-consuming lust as he slipped his tongue around hers.
She trembled at the first glancing blow, and all out shuddered as he drove in deep. Something shattered, and it didn’t take a genius to realize it was her glass. He’d simply let go, and now his hand was in her hair, gripping it so he could pull back her head. She opened for him, every part of her lush and welcoming. He was straining, hard, desperate.
He’d never been more urgent in his life.
She pulled back and gasped for air, and he dropped his forehead against hers. If she moved away, he’d just yank her back again. They were tethered, linked in a way that defied logic.
“Ask,” she panted. “Ask your question, Michael.”
The relief that she knew who he was too sang through him like a note that went on forever. He could barely speak around the tightness of his throat. “Do you have freckles all over, Chloe?”
Saying her name again felt like a form of defiance. Yeah, they weren’t supposed to be doing this. Not the sweet, single mom with the difficult past and the asshole rockstar who wreaked destruction wherever he went. But she was still looking up at him with those glowing eyes, and her mouth was still swollen from his.
No one could tell them no. Apparently, not even each other.
Saying nothing, she gripped his hand and led him over to the woodgrain bar at one side of the club. The final stool was empty and she leaned back on her elbows, giving him room to slide her onto the bar. Up, up, up, until that expanse of bare belly was fully on display and she was stretched out in front of him.
“Why don’t you find out?” she whispered.
Chapter 9
Hours seemed to pass while she was on that bar. Lost to him and the fire he’d stoked inside of her.
Now it was raging.
The watery tones of the song seemed to infiltrate her skin. Her hips followed the silky rhythm as she lifted her arms. She closed her eyes just enough so the twirling lights became streaky trails dragging her away fro
m reality. Her fingers brushed over crystals dripping off the overhead lighting fixtures of the bar.
She had enough vodka in her veins to ignore the fact that Michael Shawcross was at her feet. When his fingers skimmed over her calves and around to the backs of her knees, she opened her eyes and met his hooded gaze.
Silver winked from his eyebrow, and the shadow of a beard emphasized the angular lines of his face. He was absurdly handsome. Too attractive, to be honest. No man should be that hot and be even remotely attainable.
Yet there she was. On the bar, with the calloused tips of his fingers dragging up the backs of her thighs.
She slid her fingers into his hair. The super short hairs sifted around her trimmed nails until she got to the denser wavy strands on top. Just enough to twist, so she did. She tugged his head back, pressing her knee to his shoulder.
He reached up for her, gripping her waist with his huge hands. His long fingers made her feel tiny. Wanted.
His eyes screamed hunger.
No. Not for her. He wasn’t for her.
Rockstar.
Wrong type.
So much the wrong type.
Too bad the crackling arc of attraction between them wasn’t freaking listening.
Her breath shuddered out as she slid down his body, her breasts rubbing against his firm chest. Muscles everywhere. The breadth of his shoulders wouldn’t allow her to encircle all of him. She held onto what she could, her toes dangling off the floor.
His mouth was right there.
So close that she could taste the tequila shooter he’d just sipped off her flesh on his breath. The bite of lime would still be on his tongue. Her nails dug into his shoulders.
She wanted that lime.
