Page 81 of Bad at Love
“I’m with her,” Laz says, handing me my drink, then slipping his arm possessively around my waist. “She’s with me. As in, she’s mine, if you don’t get my meaning.”
The lumberjack balks. “Jeez, I get it dude. No harm no foul.”
He walks away to talk to the next girl and my heart is thundering against my ribs so hard I think they might break.
I glance up at Laz in awe. Where the fuck did this alpha speak come from? I haven’t seen Laz claim anything in his life and he just fucking claimed me. I think I might need a cold shower already.
“It’s Jameson,” he says, nodding at the shot.
Are we going to completely gloss over what happened?
“Thanks,” I say, my voice coming out in a squeak.
“Drink. Then we dance.”
“I don’t dance, Laz. You know this. And you’re really taking this bossy thing to heart.” I take a small sip.
“You’re too fucking cute,” he says, watching me. He shoots the contents of his glass right back and then nods at mine. “Catch up.”
I take in a deep breath because I don’t think I’ve done shots for years and then slam it back.
It burns but the feeling is nothing compared to the way I’ve been feeling all night. Actually, it feels nice to have the edge taken off, just a bit. I’m wound way too tight.
Laz plucks the glass from my hand and places it on the bar, then takes me over to the dance floor. He goes over and says something to the DJ, who nods. The songs have been slow of late but that still doesn’t take away from the fact that I don’t dance. I’m clumsy. I have no rhythm.
But Laz has all the rhythm in the world and he’s moving up against me, like he does when he’s doing a show. Only now I’m his stage that he owns, a stage he has complete control over.
It isn’t until the current song ends and then a slow familiar synth beat comes on that Laz slips his arms aroundme, pulling me to him. Tight. He sways to the sexy swagger of the song and leans in so his mouth is at my neck.
“I could corrupt you,” he sings, his deep, baritone voice washing over me like warm water, “in a heartbeat.”
He presses himself into my hip and I can feel how long and thick and hard he is.
It should make me nervous, scare me off.
But it doesn’t.
It sparks a need in me like never before.
“You’ll be calling out my name,” he sings again in time with David Gahan’s voice. At the moment I can’t even tell them apart, both are so rich and dripping with sex that it reaches deep inside of me, makes me want to take my clothes off right here on the dance floor. The press of his hard cock only seals the deal.
I want this man to corrupt me thoroughly.
“Did you request Depeche Mode?” I ask, my voice throaty, like it’s already anticipating everything to come.
“Maybe,” he murmurs. “Thought maybe I’d add Corrupt to the setlist.” He pauses and runs his lips down the length of my neck. “Though I’d have a hard time not wanting to fuck you every time I have to sing it.” He pauses. “I’m having the hardest time right now.”
I swallow, trying to find my breath while my heart is fluttering inside like a caged bird, desperate to be free.
Fucking hell.
He finally said it and it sounded sexier than I ever thought possible.
He finally said he wants to fuck me.
And I am more than fucking ready.
His lips slide down to my shoulder where he slowly brushes the thin straps of my dress and bra off and startsleaving long wet kisses. My hands go up, disappearing into his hair. Every muscle inside my body clenches.
