Page 15 of Jaded

What would I think? I don’t let strangers kiss me that often, but him? “Mm, lucky me?”

His mouth crashes into mine.

The touch is an explosion of fireworks, a wave of sparkling heat shooting straight into my brain, shock and desire and sensation. The softness of his lips. The heady, masculine brush of spice and vanilla, maybe a hint of citrus, the faint tang of alcohol, a bright burst of mint just coating the faded musk of cigarettes. The way his fingers slide into my hair to hold me steady.

Those lips part.

Tongue slides out to caress my lower lip in a touch so tender, so uncertain, it leaves mebreathless.

And I’m gone. Done for.

I sink into him, into his hand in my curls, against his warm chest holding back the frosty night around us. Let my lips open to him. Can’t help the little groan that slips from my throat as his tongue presses between my teeth. God, he’s soft. Sweet. Kissing like a question, but for whom? Me? Him?

I know my answer.

My tongue slides over his to steal more sensation, more flavor—a different mint, forgotten toothpaste. He came to this bar looking for a kiss, for someone with whom to forget the lonely night.

I could let that be me.

I pull away instead, pressing my head into his hand. “I thought you were straight.”

“Eh.” His words ghost over my skin, his lashes lowered over green eyes to hide the true intensity of his gaze. “Not entirely. But I want this. Do you?”

“Yes.” More than anything. But I don’t tell him that. And I don’t make the move; I let him lower down to me. Let him press his mouth to mine. Slide his tongue between my lips. Let him increase the pace—harder now, surer. His hand still curves around my head, and his fingers tangle tight into my curls, sending heat swelling through me.

My move.

I wrap my fingers over his hip, step forward to nudge him back into the wall. His shoulders tap brick, his body soft and pliant with acquiescence, and his tongue plunges deeper into my mouth. Harder. Faster. Hotter. Taking more, demanding more, making me want so much more.

I press into him, body to body. We’re almost the same height, so all the right parts align—his muscled thighs, angled hip bones, hard pecs. So when I push closer, his cock twitches against mine, and I don’t have to wonder if he’s feeling the same heat, the same want. The same desire.

A groan slips from his throat, and I lap it up with a flick of my tongue, like I’m drinking in everything else about him. His taste, his softness, his hardness.

I arch my hips forward to grind into him, dousing us both in tender, heady friction. I’m already half hard, which is kind of surprising, and I think it wouldn’t take much to get me all the way there. Either of us; I feel him thickening in the space between my own cock and thigh.

My turn to groan against his mouth, into the press of his tongue.

Why is that so hot? Why does it make me harder just imagining it—us, here, rutting like animals against this wall. Getting ourselves hard and horny, like teenagers making out between classes, desperate to get each other off.

I tilt my head to give him more, to offer him more of me even as I take more of him. He tastes like mint and sadness and booze—

Shit.

I pull back so suddenly the frigid night on my face is like a slap of reality. Of sobriety—which he’s not. He’s drunk and lost, and here I am, taking advantage of both. His fingers slide from my hair as I step away, and his lashes widen to reveal round, confused eyes. “Why’d you stop?”

“Well,” I say, brushing my thumb under my lip. Not looking down too low, where I really want to look. I still taste his toothpaste, his whiskey and cigarettes. “How about I give you my number, and if you want this when you sober up, I’ll gladly revisit this little exploration. Yeah?”

His breath escapes his kiss-swollen lips in a puff of laughter. He mimics my gesture, thumb wiping mouth. “Yeah. Okay.”

It’s what I needed to hear, what we both know. Come morning, come sobriety and hangover headaches, he won’t be looking for my number. Won’t be dying to relive this moment with me, this . . . whatever this is to him.

I don’t even know what it is to me, except a distraction.

Still, he holds out his phone, and I take it. Type in my digits. But it’s not until I’ve walked away, climbed back behind the driver’s seat of my truck, that it occurs to me.

I didn’t even tell him my name.

Chapter 5

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