Page 60 of Reach Around

“You said it.”

We stare at each other.

Then he whispers, “I heard every word. Supply closet in five. I want to get my face wet. Between your legs.”

Slipping back behind the bar, I down a glass of Diet Coke. I suddenly care about paper products more than I care about oxygen. Beth raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say a word, and I mumble something about restocking the back as I grab a full sleeve of cocktail napkins and duck into the hallway.

I wait. One beat. Two. I almost lose my nerve—until I hear the scrape of a barstool, Brogan’s voice cutting through the laughter, “Gonna hit the head.” Smooth. Real subtle.

My heart’s pounding so hard I’m sure half the regulars can hear it. I slip into the supply closet, the scent of lemon cleaner and cardboard boxes washing over me as I press my back to the door and count out loud to ten, just to keep my hands from shaking.

The door opens, slow and careful, and there he is—Brogan, closing it behind him, eyes dark and hungry, a crooked, knowing smile pulling at his mouth.

He doesn’t say a word.

He doesn’t have to.

The second the door clicks shut, Brogan’s on me—one big, warm hand sliding up my side, the other already dipping below my waistband. My breath stutters. I brace myself against the shelves, biting back a gasp as he presses his forehead to mine, eyes wild and intent.

“You want this?” he whispers, lips brushing my cheek, breath warm. He’s already kneeling, hands at my hips, looking up at me like I’m the answer to every prayer he never thought to say out loud.

I nod, words gone. “God, yes.”

He grins—cocky, wicked, all Brogan. “Good. ‘Cause I’ve been dying to taste you all night, JoJo. Gonna be brave right now.”

He unbuttons my jeans, slow but sure, tugging them and my panties down just enough. The cold air bites, but then his mouth is on me, and I don’t feel anything but heat. Tongue, lips, all of him—hungry, greedy, so damn sure now.

“Fuck, you’re wet for me. I love it. You know that?” He licks a slow stripe, groaning against me. “You sing for me out there, but in here? You’re gonna sing for me again. Louder.”

My head thumps back against the shelf. I grab his hair, desperate, shameless, spreading my thighs as much as I can in the cramped closet with my pants only partway down. He slides one hand up under my shirt, stroking my hip, steadying me when my knees threaten to give.

He works me with his tongue—circling, flicking, sucking just right—every stroke more confident, more possessive. “That’s it, JoJo. Let them wonder. Let them hear. Nobody else gets this, yeah? Just me. Only me.”

I whimper, toes curling in my boots. He moans, like he’s the one losing control. “You taste so fucking good. I could do this all night.”

He pushes two fingers inside, finds my rhythm instantly, his thumb rubbing tight circles over my clit as his mouth returns to devour me.

“That’s it, sweetheart. I want to feel you come for me. Give it to me, babe. I need it. Need you.”

And I do—I break apart for him, shaking, his name caught in my throat, my hand clamped in his hair as he groans into me, licking me through every last wave.

“Sounded so fucking sweet on stage, JoJo. But I like you best when you’re falling apart for me.”

When I finally open my eyes, he’s grinning up at me, lips shining, eyes wicked. He presses a kiss to my thigh, then stands, hands gentle as he tugs my jeans back up and fixes my shirt, the softest touch after the roughest hunger.

He leans in, breathless, voice rough in my ear. “You ever sing like that for anyone else, JoJo, I swear I’ll drag you right back in here and remind you who you belong to.”

I laugh, shaky, flushed, and so stupidly happy I could melt.

And when we slip out of the closet, one by one, nobody says a word.

But I’m pretty sure everyone knows.

And just like that—I don’t regret a damn thing.

Chapter Seventeen

Brogan

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