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We’re away from the wildest action here, but we still get the music and the laughter and the contagious energy. Maybe this crowd is crazier than most, but they sure know how to have a good time.
“Vodka cranberry.” Dex pushes the drink into my hand a minute later, his mouth only curving a little at my girly-as-hell drink of choice. I know whiskey is cooler, or whatever, but it gives me a headache. I don’t care enough about image to force that shit down.
“Thanks.” Our fingertips brush as I take the glass, Dex looming high above me, those broad shoulders blocking out the weak strains of light. “I appreciate your sacrifice in making this drink.”
He rumbles a laugh and sits by my side, the weight of him dipping the sofa and throwing me against his arm.
Dex grunts.
I straighten up, but I don’t move away. There’s a burning line down the side of my body where we’re pressed up against each other, and I try to steady my hands.
“You ever join in with the mayhem?” I swill my drink and nod at the tangle of bodies in the center of the room, kind of dreading Dex’s answer. Surely he does. He’s a rock star, not a monk.
But: “Not for a long time,” he says, nudging me with his elbow like he knows I need the comfort. “Not for years, London. And never again, now that I’ve met you.”
Aaaah!
Okay, I can’t be cool about this anymore. I’ve tried and tried to keep a lid on my feelings, to choke back all the pleading words lined up on my tongue, begging Dex Kincaid to take me, kiss me, claim me. And we made it nearly a month before I burst, so that’s something, right?
“Screw it.”
Dex turns to stone as I plonk my untouched drink on the floor, then turn and crawl into his lap. His thighs are rock hard—big, sturdy tree trunks of denim-clad muscle. Dark eyes watch me, hooded and wary, as I stroke my fingertips over his beard.
“What are you doing, London?”
Here goes nothing. I hold my breath and grind down. “What does it feel like?”
Dex’s head tips back with a tortured groan. Then big hands grip my hips, rocking me back and forth, working me over his lap, and it’s happening. It’s really freaking happening.
Finally.
My hair swings forward as I lean in, all the way to his bristly mouth. Dex’s kiss is savage. He’s starving, so rough that my jaw clicks, and the room is hazy around us, the strains of music and laughter and shouted conversations blurring into one.
Over everything, I hear the shaky rasp of my own breaths in between kisses. Feel the soft prickle of Dex’s beard. Our clothes rustle together as he works me over his lap, and my pulse goes thump, thump, thump in my ears.
I can’t believe this.
He’s kissing me.
He’s everything.
Dex’s tongue is hot and demanding, licking into my mouth and stroking against my own. He shows no mercy. He’s owning me, right here in the green room where anyone could see.
Oh, lord. I whimper, thighs clamping uselessly on either side of the guitarists’ hips, and I can’t grind down hard enough. Can’t get close enough to dull the pulsing ache between my legs.
“Dex.”
He grunts and tugs me closer. Flattens me against his chest and slides a hand into my hair. “I know, baby. I know.”
And I don’t care that we’re in public. Don’t care that people will notice, and gossip will spread about Jefferson Peters’ daughter writhing over his band mate’s lap like a cat in heat. I just don’t care.
All I want is another touch. A rougher grip. A sharp tug on my hair, and his teeth on my throat, and for his roaming fingers to pinch my nipples.
I let out a hiss, my head tipping back to the ceiling, when that last wish comes true. Dex pinches and rubs at my nipples through my t-shirt, and I swear I can feel his calluses through the thin cotton.
“Fuck,” Dex grinds out, his mouth hot on my ear. “I should take you somewhere private, London. Should do this properly.”
And risk everything? I don’t think so.
