Page 89 of Mexico Can Choke On It
His grip shifts to my lower back, hauling me flush until we’re sealed together everywhere that matters. I sense the rapid thrum of his heartbeat, the tension coiled in his muscles through that ridiculous Hawaiian shirt.
My arms lock around his neck, fingers tangling in his hair, and that’s when I feel the rigid length of his arousal branding my hip bone.
A quiet whimper escapes my throat before I can stop it.
He retreats immediately, his breath hot against my ear as he whispers, “Easy, Pip. You have to stay quiet for me.”
The endearment in that gravelly whisper unravels me. Then his teeth graze my earlobe, and my knees buckle. His lips blaze a trail down my throat, each kiss a promise that has me trembling. I’m drowning in sensation, in hissandalwood scent,in theheat that’s radiating from his body.
Oh fuck. I’m going to come.His hands are finally on me, and I swear to God I’m going to come. The sheer intensity obliterates every midnight fantasy I’ve tortured myself with, every desperate moment when I’d close my eyes and pretend.
His hands slide over my body—rough, greedy. Like he can’t decide if he wants to memorize every inch or devour me whole. But he’s not tearing at the swimsuit like he’s aching to get inside me. He’s savoring. Licking, sucking, breathing me in as if he’s waited years for this moment like me.
Every place he touches comes to life, my skin pebbling, tremors racing through my body like aftershocks. My nipples are straining against the fabric of my swimsuit. I arch greedily into him, pressing my chest against his so he knows exactly what I need.
He lets out a rough, needy breath that sends my core clenching.
I reach between us with shaking fingers and grab his wrist, guiding his hand to the giant white bow on my chest.
He understands immediately. His fingers work the fabric loose, and the bow falls open like a present being unwrapped. He gently pushes the material aside, and cool air hits my exposed skin.
I’m half-naked in a coat closet with Bryce Sterling, having my seven minutes in heaven. I could die of happiness.
His finger starts its descent from my throat, drawing lazy patterns between my naked breasts before tracing the curve underneath one. His palm cups the weight of me, and then his thumb is stroking across the hardened peak in devastating slow motion—
WHOOSH!
The door to our secret hideaway swings open.
Light explodes in. I yank the swimsuit fabric across my chest.
“My deepest apologies, Mr. Sterling. Miss Brinkman.” The staff member is mortified. “I was fetching Mr. Brinkman’s dance shoes. I’ll return later.”
“No need,” Bryce replies smoothly. He steps out and pulls a blazer from a hangar. “Petra, put this on.”
Now in proper lighting, our intimate encounter is written all over him. Bryce’s hair is wildly disheveled, sticking up at impossible angles. His lips are swollen and painted fire-engine red from my Wet n’ Wild lipstick. Scarlet smudges decorate his neck where I marked my territory.
And somehow, those god-awful tourist clothes make the whole picture even more mouth-watering.
The worker snatches the shoes and flees as if the room’s on fire.
Bryce finger-combs his makeout hair.“I believe we’re supposed to be at some sort of dance instruction.”
“Oh. Right. Dancing.” I glance down at his very prominent erection protruding in his ridiculous shorts. “You planning to tango like that?”
“I require a few minutes to… address the situation.” He stops at the door, shoulders rigid. “Petra, this… We need to put a pause on this. Be logical. For your brother’s sake.”
Then he’s gone, leaving me standing in a borrowed jacket, half-naked, and completely wrecked. My brain is a tornado of lust and confusion, but one thing is crystal fucking clear through all the noise:
Fuck that noise.
That man just gave me a preview of the main event and thinks he can call intermission? Wrong. Dead wrong. I’ve waited ten long years to feel Bryce Sterling lose control.
There is only one way this ends. With him buried deep inside me, consequences be damned.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
BRYCE
