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I shouldn’t have looked at him the way I did. He definitely shouldn’t have looked at me the way he did, like he was mentally peeling my panties from my body. It was Hendrix.Hendrix.
The music was still low. The lights were still hot. Or maybe the lights were low, and the music was hot. My tequila brain had trouble processing the logistics of it all. Ashton and Dallas kept Kacey and Holmes entertained. Lexi pretended to sip her margarita and people watch, but the truth was she’d had her eyes locked on Hendrix since the second he pulled off his shirt.
On the platform in the air, the DJ spun two records at the same time. The slower song with the deep, edgy bass blended with Usher’s voice and the digital pitch of a keyboard. The beat picked up and Usher took over.
“Fuck yeah, Daddy’s home,” Hendrix said, mimicking the song’s title and doing that hip thrust thing that drove other girls insane.
Yeah, he called himself Daddy, and yeah, I liked it. I liked it a lot. I could count on one finger the number of guys who could actually pull off calling themselves “daddy” and he was standing right here.
Shut it, Kennedy.I didn’t like it. The tequila liked it. This was why I stuck with rum. No one ever made songs about rum making their clothes come off.
Hendrix inched closer to me, then placed a hand on each of my hips as he continued fucking the air and holding my stare. His touch set free a thousand butterflies in my stomach.
Butterflies.
For Hendrix.
The man destined to break my heart.
He leaned in and the roughness of his stubble tickled my cheek.Stubble.He had stubble now.
“Move with me, Ken.” His breath brushed past my ear, making my hair stand on end.
“You’re grinding on the wrong person. The bride is over there.” I nodded toward Kacey.
His hands slid around to my ass. “I can’t help it. It’s like a magnet. My dick automatically follows the hottest girl in the room. Like smoke.” He smiled. It was the same crooked, dimple-on-one-cheek cocky smirk I’d seen a thousand times, but this time it looked different. This time it said,You know you want it.
I did want it.
I shouldn’t have wanted it.
But rules and distance and heartache be damned, I did.
Had to be the tequila.
“I’m not the one trading my sexual prime for a lifetime of matching Christmas pajama photos and crossover SUVs,” I said.
“Don’t forget the house in the suburbs.” He grinned wider, then moved behind me, never letting his hands leave my body. He swept my long, brown hair over my shoulder and rasped against my neck. “I want you to move with me, Ken.”
Ken.
A nickname he gave me when we were teenagers because he said my boobs were distracting. Apparently calling me by a guy’s name made themlessdistracting. It didn’t seem to be working anymore.
He acted as though the past two years hadn’t happened. As if we weren’t a twisted and mangled mess.
God, I wished that were true.
I gave in and rolled my hips in rhythm with his. Slow dips. Another roll. He dug his fingers into my hip with one hand and let the other slide around to my front. His hand slid underneath my silver sequined tank top. His fingers splayed across my lower stomach while the tip of his pinky slipped inside the top of my jeans. He pushed into me from behind, and I felt it. Oh. My. God. I felt it. Hard. Thick. Long.Him.Against my ass.
Shit. Ohshitohshitohshit.
That line we’d never crossed? Obliterated. History. It didn’t exist anymore.
The hand on my hip trailed up the side of my body until he reached my throat. He clenched his fingers around my neck and pulled my head back against him. I was sweating. My hair stuck to my neck. He was sweating. I felt it when I brought my hand up to grip his forearm. Both of us were hardly breathing. Or breathing hard. I couldn’t tell. Then he growled this deep, primal man-noise I’d never heard him make before.
“You’re a fucking sex trap, Ken. You always have been.” His voice was all growly and sexy and—
Stop this. Stop this right now.
