Page 75 of The Late Hit
“I can feel you staring at me.” Quinton doesn’t turn around to acknowledge my presence. He just stands there while my libido has been fully flipped on.
Clearing my throat, I snap my gaze away from him as my legs carry me over to the island he’s standing in front of.
Placing my palms on the marble surface, I sink into a chair, watching as his muscles stretch and flex as he flips pancakes. “Did you make us pancakes?”
Finally, he looks over his shoulder and gives me a smirk that would melt the panties right off me—if only I was wearing some. Just as quick as that smirk appeared, it melts off his face, eyes darkening as he rakes over my appearance in his dress shirt, buttons not fully closed, hair wild from fooling around all night, and lips still swollen from our kissing.
“Shit,” he whispers under his breath, turning around and pulling off the cooked pancakes.
Flipping off the stove, he turns toward me, eyes skimming my body again. My mouth goes even drier as I finally get a frontal view of Quinton.
To whomever created gray sweatpants, we love you. Signed, every girl in the world.
Tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth, my eyes drag over his crafted body. His light-brown skin shows every hard-earned defined muscle—hours in the weight room are certainly paying off. Scanning lower, my eyes land on the outline of his very impressive dick.
Before I know what’s happening, Quinton is stomping toward me, spinning my chair away from the island. His hands find the side of my face as he tilts my face up to him.
“Good morning.” His words leave his lips, and he dips down to give me one hell of a kiss that has my toes curling.
With a small hum, his tongue runs across the seam of my lips, begging for permission, which I easily grant. His tongue slides inside my mouth, and we begin dueling against each other. My legs slide apart, making room for him to step between them. He’s hard already and his sweatpants do little to hide it.
One of his hands slides from my face, dragging over my neck, my arm, and my ribs, coming to rest on the outside of my thigh. He’s tasting me with fervor. I never want this moment to end.
I want to live in a Quinton bubble where he wears nothing but gray sweatpants, cooks me food, and edges me to the point of orgasm just from a kiss.
The hand that was on my thigh slowly makes its way up and under the dress shirt I’m wearing. Chills erupt over my body as I fight to keep the moan from escaping. The pad of his thumb chases where my panty line normally is.
Groaning, Quinton pulls away, my lips feel lost without his touch. “Dammit, baby. You can’t come down here, with the house full of men, with no panties on.”
Peeking up from under my lashes, I take in his pained, lust-filled face. His dark eyes turn the color of a black hole. He’s just as affected as I am, and he’s trying hard not to take me right here on the kitchen island where anyone could come downstairs and find us. Why is it that the thought of being caught turns me on even more? I’m not much of an exhibitionist, but picturing Q sprawling me out over the counter is doing things to me. I can feel the wetness slicking my thighs.
Reaching for him, I cup his erection in my hand, giving him a little squeeze that I know gets him going. A growl escapes his mouth as he bends down, planting a chaste kiss on my lips before stepping back, tucking his dick in his waistband, and walking back to the other side of the counter.
My mouth drops open. I can’t believe he just did all of that and just walked away. “Um, hello?”
He barely glances at me, reaching up in the cupboard and grabbing two plates for us. No more words come from him as he spreads butter across our pancakes, shakes some cinnamon sugar on mine, and pours syrup over both of our stacks. My heart warms at the gesture of him putting cinnamon sugar on my pancakes.
Bringing the plates over, Quinton slides onto the barstool next to me, digging into his pancakes. Doing the same, I take a big bite of the fluffy, sugary goodness of the fried cake.
I groan into my fork, causing Quinton to pause before muttering under his breath. “You’ve got to stop doing that!”
“What am I doing?” I ask, taking another bite of the delicious breakfast.
He stares at me with no emotion on his face. “You know what you’re doing. The moaning. I’m finding it hard to sit here and eat our breakfast when I could think of something better I could be eating.”
That does it. My mind immediately dreams up images of Quinton standing above me, my body spread out on the cool marble tile. His kisses move from my mouth, trailing down my chest, skittering across my stomach. Going lower and lower. My face flames, skin feeling like it’s on fire.
Quinton knows it too. Wrapping his arm around my shoulders, he leans into me, his chest brushing my back, as he brings his mouth to my ear and whispers, “Whatcha thinking about Wilder?”
A breath I didn’t realize I was holding slips out, my body collapsing into his.
Stomping feet interrupt our moment, dousing both of us with a bucket of ice water that we both needed. Quinton heads back over toward the sink, putting his hand in the soapy water to start cleaning up our breakfast mess. It’s safe to say that our friendship is officially over. We are so much more than just friends.
“Sup, Brynn,” Xavier greets with very little enthusiasm.
Coming into the kitchen, he plops down in the seat next to me. His head immediately finds the marble countertop.
Glancing over, I watch Xavier’s hungover body collapse. He looks like shit. Little Boyd hit the bottle a little hard last night, and I can’t help the chuckle that leaves my mouth.
