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She tentatively touches my cheek, and my cock jumps behind my suit pants.
“I’m always going to call you on your shit, Kingston. This tentative truce we’ve got going on today doesn’t negate that.” Her pink tongue comes out to wet her lips, and I groan, having no clue what the fuck I’m doing.
“Tentative truce, huh?” I drag my eyes over her face and down the lines of her body. “Is that what we’re doing?”
Wren laughs again. “I don’t have any idea what we’re doing, Kingston. But you promised to get me out of here, and so far, we’re standing in an alley.”
“Is that all you want, Red? A tentative truce and to get out of here?” I run my hand over her long hair, then wrap it around my fist and tug until she tilts her head.
“What are my options?” she asks deviously.
“See those stairs?” I point to the metal staircase that leads up to the apartment above the restaurant, and she nods. “That’s my apartment.” I trail my finger over the freckles dotting the hollow of her throat.
“You were never good at listening to directions, were you, Kingston?” Her green eyes challenge me to deny it. But she’s right. I hate being told to follow directions or color in the damn lines. Call it middle-child syndrome.
She lifts her chin higher, and for some reason, that simple movement makes my cock ache.
“I asked. For options.”
Fuck it.
I slide my hands to either side of her face and drag my thumb over her plump bottom lip, then hesitate.
What am I doing?
I don’t have a chance to answer my own question because her lips crash against mine, like a tidal wave crashing against the shore. Strong and sure and powerful. She tastes like cherry wine and bad decisions, but God, I want more.
I palm the back of her head and press her against the brick building. My body no longer just crowding hers. Not now. Not when I want to own her in this moment. I lean into her, grinding my cock against her expensive dress, and she gasps, opening her mouth to mine. I push my tongue inside. Tasting. Taking.
Our hate mixes with lust, and the combination temporarily wipes away my grief and guilt.
My free hand slides from her hip up to her tits, and Wren moans into my mouth before she pulls her head back. “I still hate you, Sawyer Kingston.”
“Let’s see if a few orgasms change that, Red.”
* * *
Present Day-Wren
By the time I finish telling Quinn the story, we’re a few glasses of wine in, sitting on my couch, and we’re both a little drunk.
Okay, so I’m a little—but Quinn’s a whole lot—drunk.
“And then what?” she asks as she sits up on her knees, and I shrug.
“And then he made me come... a lot,” I tell her as I stare through the windows at Sawyer’s house. “Seriously, Quinn. It was the hottest sex I’ve ever had. Why did it have to go hand in hand with the biggest asshole I’ve ever known?”
“He’s not that bad, Wren.”
“Yes. He is. Don’t get dickmatized.” I blow out a frustrated breath.
“Dickma-what?” she asks.
“Dickmatized.” I wait a second for her to pick up on it, but she’s obviously more drunk than I am. “You know... hypnotized by good dick? Come on, Quinn. Catch up.”
My best friend snorts out her wine, like the lady she was raised to be, and laughs so hard, she can’t breathe. “That’s great. If I ever touch another dick before my vagina shrivels up and dies from lack of use, I’m totally using that.”
I nod slowly. “Sure, girl. You go for it.” She’s not even going to remember this conversation in the morning, judging by the empty bottle of wine. I’ve only had one glass, and between that and the shots at the bar, I’m feeling it. She’s bound to be passed out and snoring any minute.
