Page 42 of Swept Away
He takes another swig and this time, he doesn’t swallow.
My eyes fall to his lips.
“I want to taste it,” I say, and he nods before pressing his lips against mine.
Parting them, he lets the fiery drink drip to my lips and locks us into a kiss that doesn’t allow us to breathe, let alone swallow.
The bourbon sets my insides ablaze.
It’s like I’m doused in kerosene and set on fire by his touch when he leans over me and kisses me with fervor.
My hand moves to his thigh while he pulls up closer, kissing me deep and hard, not letting me move away.
Not that I want to.
The alcohol has lifted all the restrictions we might’ve placed on ourselves, and I don’t know how much time has gone since Carter left the room, and whether they have an understanding about this type of situation, but I want this man right now.
I fall against a pillow that supports my back as we keep kissing, burning against each other.
Without looking to the side, he sets his drink on the table and takes the glass from my hand and places it next to it.
Once he frees his hand, he slips his hand between my knees and gently nudges them open.
“He’ll come back…” I say, so turned on that I could rip his clothes off.
“Don’t worry about him,” he says, his voice heavy with lust, his hand riding up my skirt.
Maybe they do have an agreement in place, and that’s precisely why Carter is ‘taking a shower’ while we sip drinks in his living room.
One of my shoes slips off my foot.
He removes the other one and starts undoing his shirt.
I help him with the buckle before he pushes me back and tugs at my skirt.
He rides it up, and a puff of cold air rolls over my pussy.
His eyes glisten with need as if he just remembered that my ripped panties are still in his back pocket.
In one move, he removes his shirt and tosses it down, and that’s probably not the best thing to do, as Carter could return any moment now.
And that is another thing Mason will need to do–put his shirt back on–so it doesn’t look like he just fucked me on his friend’s couch.
Less concerned with that than I am, he moves his hand between my thighs and smoothly curls two fingers and pushes them in.
An explosion of pleasure tumbles through me.
“You’re insane…” I say, laughing, a bit too carelessly because of the alcohol.
He props himself on his knee, his belt dangling, his buckle open, his fly undone, and roughly lowers my neckline so a boob slips out.
“God, woman…” he says, tipping his eyes to my slit while kneading my breasts hard.
Arching my back, I push my shoulders into the pillow and softly moan.
“You want more bourbon?” he asks, noticing how swept away in a trance I am.
“Uh-huh,” I say, pulsing around his fingers, so close to having an orgasm.
