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“I already am, idiot,” I say.
When I get drunk and flirt, I call cute guys names.
It’s a dumb flaw.
But it works.
After a handful of drunk stumbling around the sandy-slash-rocky ground, Cullen stops and pulls me toward him again.
He steps to his side and he grabs my hips.
He picks me up for a second.
I let out a cliché cry of laughter.
Then I stop.
But my body doesn’t feel like it has stopped.
The world is spinning.
That’s the booze, obviously.
I’m standing in front of Cullen.
Without a word, he unbuttons my jeans and his hand slides down the front of my now open jeans.
I gasp and jump to my toes.
“Tell me this is okay, love,” Cullen whispers as his lips are ready to kiss me again.
“This is more than okay, Cullen,” I say. “Is this…”
He kisses me.
His fingers press against my panties.
He slides all the way back, gripping me.
All of me.
Front to back. Back to front.
Command and control.
A touch that screamsmineeven though that’s my fucking decision to make.
Cullen’s tongue flicks against my bottom lip.
His fingers move against me, pressing against the hidden wetness under my panties.
Then two fingers -middle and ring- pause.
He makes small circles.
My hips drive toward his touch.
I gasp.
