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Then his hand slides lower and he palms my ass to tug me closer. I gasp when I feel the steel in his pants. Mac breaks the kiss, moving his lips to my jaw, my neck, his teeth tugging at my earlobe.
“Mac.”
He pulls back just far enough to meet my eyes. “I fucking love the way you say my name.”
My insides turn molten at the intensity of his gaze, his voice. “How do I say it?” I ask, my voice barely more than a rasp.
He closes his eyes for a moment, his nose sliding along the side of mine. When he kisses me again, Mac’s lips are soft, tender. Then he speaks against my mouth, shaping the words as his lips brush mine. “You say my name like it means something.”
My heart thunders. My legs wobble. Mac’s hand stays splayed over my ass, the tips of his fingers just brushing the crease between my inner thighs and the swell of my curves. I’m going to spontaneously combust. His other hand moves from my neck down to my breast, and his thumb starts making slow, deliberate circles over my furling nipple.
Gasping into his kiss, I realize I’m clinging to him, sinking my fingers into his shoulders and grinding my hips against his hardness. His tongue slides over mine, exploring my mouth as that thumb—that thumb—continues its slow torture of my breast.
I want him to use his mouth. I want him to bend his head down and suck my breast through my top, tug my nipple between his teeth and make another one of those guttural noises. I want him to drag me to the side of the building, tear my jeans down and shove inside me. Every filthy, dirty fantasy I’ve ever had is a living thing inside me now, hot and needy and alive.
Then someone opens the bar door, and we scramble apart. The old man with the missing front tooth who had been dancing up a storm with Simone stumbles out, catching himself on the side of the building. He looks up at me, then at Mac, nods, and makes his way toward the road.
I put a hand to my forehead and chance a look at Mac.
His lush, kiss-bruised lips curl up at the corners.
“We should go back inside,” I blurt.
A pause extends between us, and I wonder if Mac might not want to go inside. If he might want to go somewhere else…with me.
But he lets out a breath and slides his hand across my shoulders to pull me close to his side. It’s the perfect place for me, and all I can do is hook my arm around his waist to hold on. Then he places a soft kiss to my temple, and my heart gives a mighty thump. “Yeah,” he says softly. “Let’s go back in.”
CHAPTER 9
Trina
I wake up to the mother of all hangovers and a godawful smell. What the—
Vomit. There’s vomit on my carpet.
Did I…?
I blink. No. I didn’t get that drunk. I had five drinks. I counted! I remember everything, including a certain kiss that feels like a universe away from where I am now, and I know for a fact I did not vomit on my carpet. I left not long after the kiss, swept away by Candice in Mom Mode, who insisted we’d regret it if we stayed out for one more drink.
I didn’t puke.
Which means…
“Mom…” Katie is at the foot of my bed looking pale, sweaty, and ashamed. “I’m sorry. I wanted to come to bed with you, and then I didn’t make it to the bathroom in time, and—” She interrupts herself, clapping a hand over her mouth.
You know when you hear those stories about mothers lifting cars off their babies with superhuman strength? Well, my hungover ass moves with superhuman speed. I throw my blankets off and don’t even blink when I realize I’m wearing a pajama shirt and nothing else. I scoop Katie up under her armpits and sprint to the en-suite bathroom just in time for her to spew all over the toilet.
“Get it all out, honey,” I say, pulling her hair back. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”
Her little body shakes as another retch convulses through her. Oh, jeez. Leaving my hand on her back running small circles over her, I reach for a washcloth and run some cool water. Then I run it over her head, her neck, trying to soothe my little girl.
After washing her up and tucking her in my bed, I get to work cleaning the vomit-soaked carpet, glancing once every few minutes at my daughter, fast asleep in a pile of blankets on my bed.
It’s hard not to feel guilty about going out last night when I have a pounding headache and a sick little girl. Watery light starts brightening through the curtains as dawn approaches while I spray some carpet cleaner on the stain to soak.
Giving Katie a kiss on her clammy forehead, I go out in search of my son.
He’s usually up by now. Toby is a morning lark through and through, just like me. But when I push open his bedroom door, I find him burrowed in a nest of blankets and pillows of his own. Sitting down on the edge of his bed, I push hair off his clammy forehead as he groans, looking so young it makes my heart squeeze.
