Page 127 of The Hot Shot
“But I’ll let you know soon.”
Hanging up, I walk over to my dress. Happiness is a strange thing. One second, it surrounds you and you’re swimming in it, gladly willing to let it consume you. Next second, thoughts roll in and it takes effort to hold on to your happy.
Finn is my happy. But he can’t be the only source. I’ll drown that way.
Finn
Chess has cast me out of the bathroom—out of the bedroom, really. It has been declared “her domain” as she gets ready for tonight. I like that she’s claimed her space and ordered me out of it, because it means she feels at home.
Even though I’m stuck in a tux, my neck held too close by a stiff white collar, I’m happy to wait on the couch and flip through TV channels. Every so often, I hear the hum of the shower, or the high-pitched whine of her hair dryer, and part of me really wants to peek.
I won’t. Anticipation is better.
Tonight, we’re attending a gala hosted by the Whett Foundation, the charity behind our calendars. Despite the fact that a bunch of football players are attending, the invite had been clear: it is a black-tie event.
There had been much grumbling among my teammates. Personally, putting on a tux isn’t any different then donning a suit for game day, so I’m not going to complain.
Down the hall, the bedroom door opens with a definitive snick, followed by the click of high heels. I get to my feet and make my way toward Chess.
I’m quicker than she is, and we find each other at the end of the hall.
The first sight of her makes me lightheaded, the floor beneathme unsteady. “Wow,” I say with a breath. “You look... You’re fucking stunning, Chester.”
Her cheeks pinken, as she looks down as if inspecting herself for flaws. “I’ve never been to a black-tie gala. I hope this is all right.”
“It’s perfect.” I take a step closer, her perfume and warmth hitting my system like a drug. She staggers me. “You’re perfect.”
Her dress is floor-length with thin straps holding it up. It skims over her like milk, the fabric white and black patterned lace that, when she moves, reveals tantalizing glimpses of skin beneath.
“Please tell me you’re wearing something under that,” I say. “I don’t think I’ll be able to function if I catch a flash of nipple.”
She laughs. “It’s lined. No nipple peeks for you.”
“I’m almost sorry about that.” Reaching for her, I slip my hand around her waist, but halt when I find smooth, bare skin. “Oh, now what do we have here?”
“That would be my back,” she says with a straight face.
I haul her closer, my hand gliding up and down. “Your entire back.” Glancing over her shoulder, I confirm it with a groan. The devious dress rests just above the rise of her peachy ass. “Jesus, Chester. You’re going to kill me.”
A small smile plays on her pink lips as she fiddles with the lapels of my jacket. “I’m pretty sure you’ll want to live, if only to take this off me later.” She straightens my bow tie, and her green eyes meet mine. “God, you’re gorgeous. It’s like I forget the impact of you, and then ‘wham’ weak knees and fluttering heart.”
The way she just out and says it, her gaze sliding over me as if I’m hot chocolate on a cold day, I get weak-kneed myself. My free hand cups her cheek, the silk of her hair sliding over my fingers. Without a word, I seek her mouth.
Her lips are a study of contradictions: soft yet firm, yielding then greedy. She sighs inside a kiss, small sounds of pleasure and want. It sends a fierce surge of lust through me. I take her mouth, own it, plunge in deep, feeding her my tongue with urgent strokes as if she’s starving for it. Yet, she’s the one who owns me. I’m the one starving.
“I love kissing you,” I say against her lips, never stopping, but taking more and more. Begging for it in return. Chess grips my lapels, holding on, tugging me closer.
My hand slides farther along the curve of her back, down under the edge of her dress. A pained groan rips from me. More satin skin. “Fuck no,” I plead, sucking her lower lip. “You’re bare?”
I feel her smile. “No panty lines,” she murmurs, breath hot and damp.
I grip her ass, kneading the firm flesh. “Fuck, baby. We’re not going to make it out.”
Her teeth pull at my upper lip, as she reaches down to cup my dick, where he is hard and insistent against the seam of my pants.
Chess makes a sound of approval, stroking and giving me an impatient squeeze. “I want him.”
“You have him.” We tumble against the wall, me leaning into her. I don’t know who is holding up whom at this point. Chess fumbles with my zipper, slipping her hand in to clasp my dick. She gives him a hello stroke.
