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Hell yeah it is.
And maybe I’ve been shy and cautious and so freaking careful all my life, tip-toeing through the world, but I don’t feel shy right now. Not since settling my ass in Flint’s lap and finding him rock hard in those faded old jeans. Not with his strong, callused hands roaming over my waist, my sides, my shoulder blades—then down to squeeze my ass.
He wants me too.
My breath hitches. I squirm and grind down, following some ancient instinct to roll my hips against his.
Flint lets out another grunt, palming my ass harder. One hand lets go—only to spank me through my dress. Heat prickles over my skin.
I mewl, grinding frantically against his lap.
Oh. My. God.
The bar lights throb around us, hazy and golden, as a new song drifts from the speakers. The stars glitter through the bar windows, speckling the night sky.
And I’m so wet already. So swollen and needy down there, my lady parts throbbing inside my underwear, desperate for Flint’s touch. I’ve never experienced this before, never felt my body run away from me like a horse bolting from its stable, but I’m doing my very best to keep up.
With every caress and squeeze, I arch into Flint’s hand; when his teeth scrape my neck, I gasp and tilt my head to a more welcoming angle. And I don’t have the words to explain right now—too tongue-tied, too breathless—but whatever he wants from me, I’ll give. However he wants to use me, I want that too.
Maybe it’s messed up. Maybe I’m unearthing some long-buried daddy issues, desperately craving this older man’s approval. Or maybe I’m just a twenty-three year old virgin finally meeting the man who makes her body sing.
Who knows? Whatever’s going on here, the instinct to please Flint is stronger than logic. Stronger than ego or pride. All I want is to fray this man’s stern self control, and to take him apart piece by piece while my name is on his lips. Want him to be as obsessed with me as I am with him.
“So fucking pretty.” Flint strokes down the length of my ponytail, then gives it a gentle tug. I whimper, plucking the buttons of his shirt undone with shaky hands. “Never thought this was on the cards, sweetheart. Not with me old enough to be your—”
“You’re not that old.”
Flint’s mouth curves up on one side, hitting me without warning with the first true smile I’ve ever seen from this man. “I’m forty two. Ancient compared to you.”
I huff, wrangling a stubborn button. “Hardly ancient. More like… distinguished. Wise and experienced. And so sexy.”
Flint exhales, leaning close to rub his cheek against mine. His stubble crackles against my skin, so manly that I nearly melt into a puddle. “Oh yeah? Sexy, huh?”
“Definitely.” Flicking the last shirt button open, I sigh happily and spread the fabric wide, barely a sculpted chest and toned abs. Flint’s torso is strong and tanned, like he makes a habit of working outside with his shirt off, and dark hair trails from where it’s thickest on his chest, all the way down his stomach to disappear beneath his belt. Since I have no chill, I declare to the empty bar: “This is it. I’ve peaked.”
Flint snorts, cupping the back of my head. “Come here.”
Our kiss is slow and deep and filthy, tongues sliding together and teeth grazing bottom lips. We don’t come up for air, because that is what nostrils are for: to let you kiss a sexy older man until your head spins. I get it now.
“Mmph.”
I’ve given up on words. Why speak, when my mouth is better occupied? Better to kiss Flint like it’s my last night alive, grinding against the hard bulge in his jeans, and let my body do the talking. It’s sure got enough confessions to make.
Like… how long I’ve wanted this. How many nights I’ve laid awake in my cramped little bed, fingers moving busily inside my pajamas as I squeeze my eyes shut and picture Flint moving above me. The glowering bar boss, finally claiming me as his.
Breaking away from the kiss, I glance at my sketchbook on the table, the first trickle of unease sliding down my spine.
Because Flint thinks tonight is the first time I’ve drawn him. He thinks this whole encounter is easy and breezy and normal. A hot surprise fling. But what if he finds out about the dozens of other sketches I’ve done of him? What if Tess or Jana tells him, or he flicks through my sketchbook and finds them himself?
My stomach cramps, and suddenly I feel sick.
The way he’d look at me then… the disappointment, maybe even alarm in his eyes…
Icy cold spreads through my veins, frosting me over from the inside. I’m stiff with dread in Flint’s arms.
This was a mistake.
“Marigold?”
