Page 120 of Loathe Thy Neighbor

“It’s raining sideways out there.”

I shrug, and he turns toward the front of the elevator with an annoyed huff as the car begins its ascent.

Water dropletsplop, plop, ploponto the floor.

Unable to help myself, I steal a glance at him out of the corner of my eye.

Even soaking wet, he looks good.

His black hair is a mess, that ever-present stubble along his jawline still there. Those long, muscular legs of his are clad in a pair of jeans that hug his ass way too well. He’s sporting a Metallica t-shirt that’s just wet enough and tight enough to give the imagination something to cling to.

Only I don’t have to use my imagination.

I know exactly what’s under that shirt.

Know how much he likes it when I pepper kisses down his stomach. How much it makes him squirm and curse when I run my tongue over the muscles he’s worked so hard to build. And how it really drives him wild when I drag my fingernails across his skin when I’m on my knees for him.

His jaw twitches, and I know he’s aware of me looking at him.

Allof him.

Including the bulge that’s steadily growing with each passing floor.

Is he thinking about it too?

You can hear the claps of thunder even inside the elevator, and I’m thankful they cover my stuttered breaths.

“How’s Morris?” he asks, breaking the tension.

I know he’s not truly asking about my cat. He abhors Morris.

“Better than he’s ever been,” I lie.

He grunts.

The power in the building surges and the elevator grinds to a sudden stop. I lose my balance, falling right into Dean, who drops his groceries in an effort to catch me.

It goes dark.

“Shit,” he mutters, wrapping an arm around me and pulling me against him.

The power surges again, and we’re rocked the other way.

My back is against the wall, one of Dean’s arms around me, the other pressed against the ceiling above our heads.

The lights flicker back to life, and the elevator continues its ascent, but this time much, much slower.

We don’t move, and we barely breathe.

His fingers flex on my waist as he drops his head, his lips finding a spot on my exposed shoulder. One soft kiss. Then another. And a third. All in a line, tracing up my neck while his fingers go the opposite direction.

He plays with the hem of my short cotton shorts, dipping his fingers dangerously close to places he’s not supposed to be touching as he continues to kiss up my neck. There’s no way he doesn’t feel me clench my thighs together. No way he doesn’t feel the heat coming from between them.

His lips are at my ear when the car dings, announcing its arrival on our floor.

His fingers dig into my thighs, and he curls his other hand into a fist that he taps against the wall once. Twice. Like he’s fighting with himself.

Cold sweeps over me when he pulls away, peering down at me with glassy, lust-filled eyes.

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