Page 643 of One More Kiss

“Unless of course you want to watch?”

She pulls her lower lip between her teeth.

“Are you bringing the bottle back to your room?”

“Of course.”

“Then lead the way, Mann.”

I have to remind myself that she’s drunk, that we’re both grieving, because in that moment all I want is to throw her over my shoulder, take her to my room and lay her out on my bed. I imagine peeling my t-shirt over her head and slowly tugging those ridiculously oversized sweats from her legs. I bet there’s a fucking masterpiece to discover under all those clothes, one I wouldn’t mind taking my time to appreciate.

I’d start at her mouth, at those lips that I can’t stop staring at. I’d familiarize myself with the way they feel pressed against mind, then I’d pry them open and get drunk on the taste of her.

“Well, Mann, are you coming or what?” she teases, giving my hand a tug.

I wish.

Our timing may be off, but my dick doesn’t seem to give a fuck.

Sighing, I look over my shoulder at Maverick.

“Ink knows the plan for tomorrow,” I tell him.

He nods and I bring my attention to Chestnut. Maybe if I focus on the dog, my need to ravish Jo will fade.

“Let’s go boy,” I say, squeezing Jo’s hand. We start down the hallway and she mumbles a goodbye to the guys. At least that’s what I think she says, I can’t fucking hear anything over the sound of my pulse pounding in my ears.

Reaching my room, I release her hand and open the door. She enters first, then the dog and finally me. Once the door is closed, the silence weighs heavily between us. Desperate to break it, I push the bottle toward her.

“I forgot the glasses.”

“I’m not above drinking from the bottle, especially not tonight,” she says, taking the bottle from my hand. Her fingers brush mine and the simple touch sends a shock through my system. A logical man would abort whatever the fuck this is, but as I watch her lift the bottle to her lips, my mind goes blank. My gaze slides from her mouth to her throat as she swallows, and my dick strains against the zipper of my jeans. Like I’m not already the world’s biggest asshole, why not add a semi to the mix. Andrew’s body is barely fucking cold and instead of mourning his life, I’m staring at his sister’s mouth, wishing it was wrapped around my dick and not a fucking bottle of Henny she’s using to drown her sorrows.

Jo tears the bottle from her lips and shoves it against my chest, swiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

“Your turn,” she says.

With the Devil on my shoulder, I take the bottle from her. We go shot for shot, draining half the bottle. Jo takes another swig—her fourth or maybe her fifth—I’ve lost count, then she tucks the bottle under her arm and turns to the bed.

I’ve done my best to keep a safe distance between us, only moving away from dresser I’m leaning on to take the bottle from her when it’s my turn, but my feet seem to have a mind of their own when she climbs into my bed.

“What are you doing?” I question, stopping at the foot of the bed.

“The floor started to move,” she says, patting the empty space beside her. “I don’t bite, Mann.”

What a shame.

I like a little pain with my pleasure.

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