Page 162 of Cross the Line
My hands anchor on his hips. Thumbs tracing that gorgeous, hard-cut V of his groin while his lips ghost across one side of my face. Settling at my ear.
“Just know that I’ve only played nice till now, Babe.” That’s all he says before he slaps my ass so damn hard, the ache echoes through me to my balls, shooting up my dick with an unforgiving throb.
Goddamn.
I know how brutal he can get. I’ve seen him let loose on Finley enough to know he’s still holding back with me. But, fuck me, all my damn wires came alive at just that one slap. And hell, if I don’t instantly want more.
CHAPTER 43
FINLEY
“I swear to God, Tina, you can see what I had for breakfast!” I look in the mirror and smooth down the length of the scrap of white chainmail draped around my body.
“It covers your tits and your ass, Babe. You’re decent.” Bumping her hip with mine, she fixes her boobs in her white, backless dress.
While mine hangs loose, skimming the peaks of my breasts and the curve of my butt, hers is molded to her curvy body. The deep, structured V dips to the top of her waist so that her ample boobs are perfectly showcased in all their boobilicious glory.
“Shake your ass,” she tells me, grabbing our glasses of champagne.
I take mine, and we toast, stepping into our heels before I do as she told me.
“And that right there,” she points at the string of my thong along the top of my hip, “is why you can’t wear underwear.”
“No way. I am not going out there into the world without my panties.” I try to tug the string higher, but it’s so uncomfortable I have to pry my thong from between my labia.
“Sweetie, they’re barely there, anyway, and if anything, it’ll drive those men of yours crazy. Trust me.” Giving her hair one last pass with the hot brush to get it perfectly sleek, she dabs on a little more of her dark red lipstick and turns to me. “Take ’em off, Amish.”
Shoot!I attempt another wiggle without showing off my one piece of lingerie, a nude lace thong with mini pearls dotted on the front.
“What if I trip and?—”
“Dude, you have two strong-ass hockey players to hold you up alldamn night. The only way your ass is going to hit the floor is if they want you down there. Ya know?” She gives me a lewd smirk, punctuated by a waggle of her manicured brows.
She’s right. Eli and Jayden aren’t going to let me fall.
“Just imagine…” She croons, leaning her back against my side with a long, exaggerated gulp of her wine. “You’re all sweaty and hot, on the dance floor, bumping and grinding, and one of your guys strokes his hand up your leg and finds you commando… Imagine how fucking spicy getting fingered on the dance floor would be. A whole new meaning to ‘Happy New Year.’”
“Oh my God, Christina… stop!” I’m flushing at the memory of Eli touching me at the Christmas party. The more I think about it, the warmer my core throbs.
With a filthy grin and cluck of her tongue, she continues, “Five, four, three, two, one, andoh sweet, sweet cumstickles…”
I shimmy the thong down my legs, and when I crouch down to pick it up and buckle my clear sandals around my ankles, I can’t help but giggle at how indecent it feels to not be wearing panties.
Jayden’s going to lose his mind. Eli’s going to be speechless and totally turned on by it.
“Yes, sister,” Christina giggles as I throw my thong into the laundry case. “Those men are gonna die.
Die. Diiii—fuck…”
I spin towards the opening of the dressing area as Christina chokes beside me to find Eli sauntering my way with Jayden following behind him. Eli’s eyes are wide like saucers, roving up and down my body to the sound of JJ’s low whistle.
But my Lord, they’re a sight to behold in their all-white attire. Eli is in a thin linen shirt that gives a teasing hint of the fit real estate underneath the fabric. The sleeves are rolled up his muscly forearms, and the buttons are open to the middle of his chest with the tails tucked in snug to accentuate the lithe lines of his physique. All the way to his narrow waist, where his matching linen pants hang low and perfectly tailored to his thick thighs, down to the turn-ups at his ankles.
While he’s wearing white suede loafers to match, JJ’s got crisp white tennis shoes on with fitted white slacks cut off at his ankles and a tight white polo shirt that should be illegal on his tanned brawn. The buttons are all open, and his arms look big and bulging, stretching the short sleeves with the same hulking exquisiteness as the light cotton pulled taut across his shoulders and chest.
God bless whoever came up with the white dress code because they look like gods, ready to burn up the damn earth with their swagger.
“And this is my cue to go,” Christina whispers out of the side of her mouth, giving my hand a squeeze while she adds, “Leave you pretty people to bump uglies.”
