Chapter 9
PAIGE
Like a rocket launching to the moon, my sensory receptors erupt when our tongues touch. Every lick, every taste, every tangled movement feels like a blazing inferno that burns with need through me, extending out into the intergalactic planets and beyond.
I finally reach out to touch him, fully, threading my hands into his hair, to discover it’s longer than I imagined.
Searching with my fingertips, wanting to feel all of him, I dip them into the neckline of his shirt and follow the contour of his collar to his front.
When I realize his shirt is unbuttoned, I let my hands drift down over his collarbone to his chest, and I smile against his lips when I discover he has a hairy chest. Not too short, not too long. Just perfect.
“What made you smile?” he asks on a series of pants and heavy breaths, the rough whiskers of his beard tickling my chin. I’m going to suffer and have beard rash tomorrow; my sensitive skin isn’t used to his bristles.
“I love a hairy chest.” My confession rolls off my tongue.
“I’m hairy all over, Bunny.”
Oh God, that pet name is doing serious things between my legs. Mainly making me wet. Kissing has never had this effect on me. It’s incredible, life-altering even, and has my head revolving like a spinning top.
Unable to resist, he presses his lips against mine again, and we kiss in what feels like a never-ending assault on our senses, and I can tell he wants this as much as I do. It’s messy and dirty, almost sinful as we moan and groan into each other’s mouths.
He roughly pushes his fingers into the hair at the back of my neck, pressing my mouth harder against his to deepen our kiss, and I’m grateful that the masks don’t cover our noses, or it would make it impossible for us to kiss freely. An intentional detail made by the club, I guess.
Eventually, as our kiss slows down, he shifts his focus to the side of my mouth, then my cheek, kissing it softly before tracing a trail of ghost-like kisses along my jaw toward my ear, where he whispers against it, “I’m so fucking hard for you.”
I shove my good girl into the freezer, locking her away and tossing the key, just to stop her from interfering with what I’m about to do. I don’t give myself a moment to question it. Instead, I ask, “Can I feel how hard you are?”
“Touch me.” He sinks his teeth into my neck at the same time I cup him over his pants and rub him.
And he’s not just hard, he’s rock solid, and holy shit, he’s a big boy.
“How tall are you?” I ask, making him smile against my skin as he nibbles, his hands tracing down my body, shaping my waist and moving over my hips.
“Six-three,” he answers, then throws me another compliment. “You have a beautiful body.”
“You haven’t seen it out of this dress.” I’m not as toned as I used to be.
Squeezing my ass, hard, he says, “I don’t need to see. I can feel everything through your silky dress. Your curves are fucking driving my dick wild.”
The way he’s touching me in such a public setting feels unhinged, almost freeing, because the dark hides us, although the low UV blacklight doesn’t disguise everything.
When I look over Mr. Fox’s shoulder, I swear a couple are fucking in the corner of the room.
God, this is so hot. I give his thick length, which is impressive enough to break the zipper of his pants, a firm squeeze before I get handsy and begin to explore the contours of his body beneath what feels like a dress shirt.
Not only does he have a monster cock, but he’s also big everywhere. Unmistakably defined and lean.
Using both my hands, I feel every hard inch of him over his shirt, the fabric taut, working hard to contain his large biceps.
Moving south, I run my hands over his firm pecs, which he flexes, as if showing off how disciplined he is and the strength that lies beneath the surface.
He feels like a statue of a god brought to life, sculpted with precision, strength etched into every chiseled muscle.
He flinches when my fingertips explore his six-pack stomach, or maybe it’s an eight-pack; whatever it is, I’m certain I could do my laundry on it and use him like a washboard in the same way they did back in the 1800s.
One thing’s for sure: he’s athletic and undeniably strong. I just wish I could see him.
“You feel amazing,” I say in a secretive tone, reaching up to cup his face in my hands, loving the feel of his fuzzy beard against the tip of my thumb.
The heat jumps between us like an electrical charge, buzzing and tempting us to go further.
Raking his hand through the hair at the back of my head, he pulls his face back to mine and devours me with his mouth again.
“You’re perfect,” he mumbles, between kisses as his lips work mine. “I could kiss you for hours.”
It’s the same for me; kissing has never felt so natural. That makes no sense, because we’re strangers, and yet there’s something so familiar about him. It’s a nagging feeling. Something is gnawing away, like I already know him, but that can’t be right.
My thoughts drift back to the conversation with Cat outside the club. The one where I asked her if she might know someone here tonight.
One in a hundred thousand.
That possibility is like winning the lotto having never even bought a ticket. I think I’m safe.
All the fear I had before now feels like an overreaction, because dating in the dark isn’t nearly as scary as I thought.
Kissing this guy beats winning any case I’ve ever had, even that divorce case that turned into a court battle with Max Hart last year.
That man really does know how to push my buttons, and not in a good way.
Heat ripples across my skin like a shockwave when Mr. Fox runs his hands up my bare arms again, up over the spaghetti straps of my silk dress. “You’re shivering.”
I lower my voice and tell him the reason why. “I was just thinking, what if you were the guy who winds me up and who I have to work with sometimes?”
He stills for a beat before saying what he’s thinking. “Shit. I never thought about that.”
“Do you have someone you work with that ruffles your feathers?” I inquire, eager to learn more about what, or who, gets under his skin.
“Yes and no. She doesn’t work with me but I work alongside her sometimes.
Any romantic involvement breaks not only ethical rules, but it’s a serious conflict of interest, and possibly grounds for having my license revok—” He clears his throat then rephrases what he was about to say, unaware I’ve figured out his accent isn’t fooling anyone. “I’d get fired from my position.”
I figure out he was about to say he would have his license revoked, setting my mind off on a tangent, and maybe he’s not a desk worker after all.
Doctor, physio, counselor, psychologist, teacher… He could be any one of those that could lead him to having his license revoked if he were personally involved with someone romantically.
I try to reassure him. “Before we came tonight, I did the math, roughly, and figured there was maybe a one in a hundred thousand chance I’d know someone here.”
“I think we’re safe then.”
My lips curve into a giant smile, feeling more relaxed. “I think so too.”