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We land on a couch, Baylor knocking things from it even as he sets me down. My nails clutch at his shirt, tugging it, desperate to get the thing off. I need to see him, touch his skin. With a muffled curse, he yanks the shirt over his head in one move, his hair tufting in wild angles as it comes away.
One glimpse of his glorious chest, hard-packed with muscle and gleaming in the pale light from the outside street lamp, is all I get. Then he’s on me, his mouth at my throat, licking, kissing, sucking. Zeroing in on a spot that sends pleasure and heat skittering through my flesh. Fingers rake my shoulders, grab hold of my top, and pull it to my waist. He eases back as he does this, his greedy gaze taking in everything. I lift my exposed breasts. An offering. A plea. I’ve become a wanton thing, needing his touch.
“Christ.” It’s a growl in the darkened room. “You’re so...”
His head lowers, steamy breath buffeting my hard nipple, and then his hot, wet mouth draws me in. The way he goes at me. It’s almost lewd, his tongue sliding and flicking over my nipple as if he’s lapping up melting ice cream. I feel it to my core, as if he’s licking there too. His big warm hand covers my other breast, kneading and shaping it with just enough force to have me restless and shifting beneath him.
When he plucks my throbbing nipple, I rear up, my hands finding his narrow waist, my mouth on the heated skin of his shoulder. He tastes of salt and smells of sex. My knuckles scrape on the buttons of his jeans as I tear at them. And then his cock is in my hand. I revel in the thick, satin heat of him, a pulsing living thing that twitches in my grasp, before his mouth returns to my neck, his hands grabbing for my skirt. Our heads bump, our breaths coming short. We’re both too greedy, too eager to touch each other.
My panties are wrenched off and cool air hits my exposed skin. Baylor rises over me, his honed body a work of art in the weak light. His open jeans sag about strong thighs, the jut of his long cock barely visible in the shadows. He’s reaching into his pocket, pulling a wallet out. His hands shake, the wallet threatening to fall as he struggles to get a condom packet free.
“Hurry.” My legs tremble, my sex so swollen it aches. “Now. Now.”
Cursing, he tears at the battered packet. My vision blurs, and I rub a boot-clad foot over his ass. He flinches as though burned, then rolls the condom on, canting his hips and holding the root of that big cock in one hand. God, the way he moves, so confident and just a bit dirty. I can’t wait any longer. I’m empty, so empty.
The hot skin of his chest presses against mine, his breath a rough, disjointed sound. Both of us groan, as the blunt head of his cock pushes into me. In, in in, working deeper. Until I’m filled with him.
We still for a moment, centered on the feel of him pulsing inside of me.
Inside me. Drew Baylor is inside me.
It’s like a fever dream. Unreal, and yet it’s the most present I’ve ever been in my own flesh. Then he moves. Pumps hard and deep. Dream or not, it no longer matters.
Every time he thrusts, he makes a little helpless grunt as if he needs more, more. I understand. The thickness of his cock filling and emptying me, the silk of his skin sliding over mine, is too much but not enough. I’m burning up, shaking with pleasure. I didn’t know it could be like this.
I clutch the shifting muscles of his back, pulling him closer. He trembles, his grip moving to my ass, holding it as he does what he wants to me. And I let him, because nothing has felt better.
“Jones,” he rasps in my ear. Needy. Dark.
So close. So close.
His teeth graze the sensitive area low on my neck. When he bites down, sucking hard as he grinds against my clit, I come with bright and blinding brilliance.
As if I set something off, he goes wild, bucking and thrusting. His eyes meet mine, and my breath hitches. The way he looks at me, all heat and intensity. I know exactly what he’s feeling, because I need him with the same urgency.
I dig my fingers into the tight globes of his ass. His entire body goes granite hard, straining against mine as he comes with a harsh cry. Our gazes hold until the last spasm goes through him.
Lax and sated, we melt into each other, our chests lifting and falling in a shared breath.
When he talks, his voice is coarse as gravel. “God, Jones. That was...” His voice fails, but his grip on me tightens. Like he’s not going to let me go.
Reality is a fall through ice into deep, dark water. I freeze in the aftermath. What the fuck have I done?
Drew
I’m still shaking when I get home. My hands are useless, fumbling with the buttons of my jeans, grasping and missing the taps before I manage to turn on the shower. Full-out cold.
I’m a wreck. My heart is beating like I’ve just done an hour of shuttle drills. And it doesn’t seem to want to slow down.
Icy water hits my overheated skin, and I hiss.
Holy hell, what just happened?
Anna Jones has wrecked me. Utterly.
Memories assault me: the pale, undulating length of her body arching up to mine; drawing her hard, luscious nipple deep in my mouth; the soft, warm weight of her breasts cupped in my hands.
I groan. My knees go weak, and I have to lean against the tiles or risk falling over.
