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“Join you for what?” I step closer to him, and his eyes track my movements. But when I reach him, he turns to the door behind him and pulls it open.
“In here.”
My heart rate picks up. I’m not sure if it’s the alcohol or excitement. He’s taking me to his bedroom. I mean, that’s what I want, right?
I step in, and rock music fills my ears. He walks straight to a bench and sits down on it, looking over at me. I look around, and a part of me is disappointed. This is not his bedroom. It’s his gym.
“I’m sure your father wouldn’t approve of you being in my house.” My head lolls to the side as one hand falls to my hip.
“Why?” I ask.
He lies back on the bench, and his arms move as he reaches for the work-out bar above his head. I watch him do chest presses and realize the bar has to weigh as much as I do. I wonder if he could lift me like that.
I’d like him to lift me straight onto his face.
Shit.
I’ve really had too much to drink.
“Because good girls like you shouldn’t be around monsters like me.”
“I don’t see a monster.” I walk over to him. My leg brushes his and tingles all the way to my stomach explode at the small contact. I don’t touch him with any other part of me. When I look down at him, I see how much he wants me. He may hide it very well, but I can see it hidden in those eyes.
“This is a dangerous game you are playing.”
As he says the words, I can see the need, or better yet, the want, lingering in his eyes. He sets the bar back in place and sits up, and the action places his eyes level with my chest. Our bodies are so close if he leaned forward his lips would touch my nipples.
And I think I want him to do that.
Yes, I definitely want him to do that.
“Sometimes danger is what we need.” I smirk, leaning down so our faces are close. “Are you single?” I ask him.
“But what about that fiancé of yours? What’s his name?”
“Clinton? Let’s just say I was tired of pretending with him. So, I called it off.”
He smirks and before any other words can leave my mouth, he lifts his hand, reaches into my red hair, and pulls my face to his. I feel his grip tighten on my hair as our lips touch.
Kissing.
It's such a funny thing.
I hardly kissed Clinton, and when I did, I felt like it was kissing a ragdoll. It was boring. No sparks, and I hated it.
But with Whiskey, kissing is otherworldly. It feels like he is trying to take my fucking soul. His lips are soft, but also rough with need at the same time. The hand that has my hair is holding on for dear life. When I reach out for him, I come into contact with his bare skin, and there’s nothing to latch on to. I slide my hands down as I open my mouth, and that’s all the invitation he needs before he slips his tongue in and grips my hair a little harder as I clasp onto his waistband of his pants.
We stay connected, kissing for what feels like ages. I need more. Moving my hand lower, I step back a fraction––never breaking the kiss–– so I can slide my hand fully into his pants, grasping his hard cock in my hand.
There is a small part of me saying I should step away. Stop before this goes too far.
I should not be doing this; what would happen if my father found out? Not only is he my father’s friend, he is also older than me.
But I won’t. I don’t want to stop. My hand wraps around him, and as it does, he breaks the kiss, pulling back but not moving. His eyes lock onto mine.
“You should go.” His words may say one thing, but his actions say another. His hand is still in my hair, and my hand is still in his pants.
“I should,” I agree.
