Page 28 of The No Touch Roommate Rule
I knock once, softly.
The door flies open instantly. A second later, Makena’s hand shoots out, grabbing my shirt and yanking me inside with the strength of a woman who needs a good dicking down as desperately as I need to give it to her.
I have a beat to take in that this bathroom is A LOT—a changing table sits beneath a shrine to taxidermy squirrels, the walls are covered with haunted forest wallpaper that gives me flashbacks to being afraid of the Snow White cartoon as a kid, and the air smells weirdly of cotton candy mixed in with the bleach.
But I don’t have time to process more than that before Makena slams the door behind us, clicks the lock, and pushes me against the wall.
Then she’s kissing me.
And everything else—the squirrels, the rules, the inexplicable smell of cotton candy—disappears.
Chapter
Seven
MAKENA
His mouth is on mine, and I’m gone.
No thoughts. No regrets. Just heat and pressure and the taste of Slim Jim and mandarin orange liqueur as Parker kisses me like the world’s ending, and I’m the last thing he wants on his tongue.
And God, I want him back. Want him with a ferocity that burns straight through every rule and reason I swore I would keep my hands to myself around this man.
Who the fuck was I kidding?
This was inevitable. From the second Parker scooped me up and hurled me into his truck like my own personal superhero, we were destined to have hot sex in a public bathroom.
Okay, maybe not the public bathroom part, but the sex part.
Maybe, if at any time in the past five days, he’d shown some sign that he wasn’t still the same sweet boy I once knew, all grown up, things would have been different.
But he didn’t.
He’sactuallya good guy.
And I’m about to be very,verybad.
I press closer, but it’s not enough. Never enough. Nearly a week of watching him limp around shirtless and sexy as hellafter his morning workout, of catching him staring at my ass in the garden, of cold showers that did nothing to cool the heat building between us—it’s all combusting at once. My hands are everywhere, sliding under his shirt to find warm skin and solid muscle, mapping the territory I’ve been fantasizing about since I forced myself to run away from him after the wedding.
I had reasons for running, obviously.
Good reasons…
I just can’t remember any of them now.
His tongue strokes against mine again—slower now, deep, deliberate, devastating. He kisses the way he moves on the ice—like he knows exactly where he’s going and how to get there, but he’s savoring the glide.
The game.
I arch into him, shameless, chasing more, and he gives it. One hand fists in my hair, the other grips my ass, dragging me closer to the thick ridge straining against his cargo shorts.
His teeth graze my lower lip, and then he’s kissing me again, harder this time. Like he wants to melt every last boundary between us with his mouth.
His crutches clatter to the floor—hopefully not into anything too biologically hazardous—as he flips our positions, giving me my turn against the wall. The fake wood paneling is cold against my back, but Parker is a furnace against my front. The contrast makes me shiver.
“Cold?” he murmurs against my throat.
“Burning up,” I correct, proving it by grinding against his erection.
