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I mean, I guess technically we were parked, but still. And nine inches? The ache in my jaw says differently.
Too quickly, my boots take me to the elevator door. I wait for Chase to catch up, refusing to look back at him. Still revved up from sucking him off like a prizewinning Hoover, I don’t trust myself not to ride him like a stallion at a Wild West show. Jesus, listen to me. I’m so turned on I’m mixing up metaphors.
I’ve been fighting the need to jump his bones since that first phone call. Since I dosed him with hot coffee. Don’t even get me started on the state of my newly purchased panties while he watched me play dress up. True, I had some setbacks. Dinner. The elevator…
But I’d regrouped!
I flew halfway across the country and avoided all phone-sex-voiced phone calls, for heaven’s sake. Distance. Time. Both things that should’ve lessened an overwhelming, no-good, should-know-better desire for Chase Moore.
It didn’t.
And then I had to watch him affectionately tease his little sister before he sweetly held my hand on our walk to his car.
There’s only so much a girl can take.
Speaking of… His body heat invades my personal space as he leans forward and swipes a card to open the elevator doors. As we cross the threshold, he swipes his card again before pushing the button for the top floor. Then he slips his hand into mine.
I’ve never been one for public displays of affection, not even simple ones like holding hands. But for some reason, his hand in mine calms me. The feel of Chase’s skin, even just the smooth glide of his palm on mine, brings a smile to my face that I don’t entirely understand.
There are a lot of things I don’t understand about my body’s reactions when it comes to Chase Moore. But I’m tired of fighting it, tired of expending so much energy avoiding and trying to rationalize my irrational behavior. It’s time for a little less conversation and a little more you-know-what.
“Are you humming Elvis again?”
Blinking, I focus my attention on Chase’s amused grin. “Uh…” Oh dear lord. I was humming the King again. My face heats when I realize just which song I’d been humming.
Chase laughs, pulling me to him with our connected hands. Now we’re more than just palm to palm, we’re front to front, all his good bits against mine. The elevator door chimes and slides open. I don’t look away, still caught in Chase’s smiling gaze.
“You needing a little more action?” His voice husky, he leans down and gives me a light kiss on the tip of my nose. “I think you’re on to something, Bell.” He sings a little of the song, his phone-sex-operator voice ten times more powerful when put to a melody. But what he does next seals the deal. Changes the tone from sweet to sexy in one move.
He winks at me.
That freaking wink.
Game. Fucking. On.
Before Chase knows what hit him, I push him out of the elevator and climb him like a tree. Just think of me as the lumberjack to his hardwood. TIM-fucking-BER!
My legs wrap around his waist, and my cowboy boots hook behind his back. I shove my hands in his hair, using my leverage to devour his mouth.
I keep kissing, barely breathing, while somewhere in my mind I process Chase’s struggle to stay standing. I don’t care. I’m determined to make him crazy, to burrow my way under his skin just like he has mine.
Maybe we can exorcise each other out of our minds through our bodies. And if not, by the feel of him in my mouth earlier, I know that what is about to happen next will at least feel fucking fantastic.
We whirl through the foyer like a tornado through Oklahoma. Keys fall, lamps crash, a cat hisses…
Wait, what?
“Mike, fuck!” Chase’s foot catches, and he careens over something that sounds like a pissed-off tiger. Suddenly we’re airborne. I feel Chase trying to throw me forward, and I appreciate his efforts when my ass lands on some sort of cushioned furniture. But any appreciation evaporates when something hard crashes on my head.
“What the—?”
“Fuck. Campbell. Are you okay?”
There is a beat of silence as we both assess the situation.
Chase is stretched out on his stomach in front of me, his arms out. I’m sitting, legs akimbo, in a large, overstuffed armchair, and there’s a picture frame on my lap. Still stunned from the knock to my head, I turn over the frame and stare at the photograph mounted behind cracked glass.
“It’s a dick.” I blink a few times to make sure I’m not seeing things. Maybe I have a concussion.
