Chapter Five
Anna
The house is bigger than it looks from the outside. Upstairs is a warren of long, dark hallways, stretching out in two L-shaped wings. Several rooms are occupied, the sounds coming from within leaving little doubt as to why. The hall is empty—people going back downstairs as soon as they realize that they aren’t going to get to make use of the rooms themselves.
I walk along, discreetly listening to doors to find one that’s silent. I need the bathroom and do not want to walk in on anyone before I find it.
Thankfully, a small bath near the end of the hall is unoccupied. Once inside, I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. It’s blessedly quiet here, the blaring bass of the music a muted thud.
My skin is hot, and my heart is still beating too hard. It’s like I’ve run a mile in a minute. Worse, part of me wants to go back downstairs where he is.
Cursing, I run cold water over my hands and splash some on the back of my neck. In the reflection of the mirror, my cheeks are pink and my eyes are shining. I look excited.
“Hell.”
I pat myself dry, take another calming breath, and leave the bathroom. And practically run into someone. My shoulder hits the cool wall behind me as I step back to get away.
Baylor stands there, his expression bemused as if he hadn’t expected me to pop out at him. Then he moves closer, taking my air. My thoughts scatter.
His eyes, intense and determined, are all I see. We are alone. Utterly. Finally.
I can’t look at him then. Not directly. He is the sun, burning bright.
“Why are you here?” My voice is a wisp of sound in the small space.
So is his. “I want you.”
The floor dips beneath me, his confession taking up too much air. Baylor seems just as shocked by his words. But he commits to them with a squaring of his broad shoulders. “Tell me you don’t want me, and I’ll go.”
My mouth opens, a denial on my lips. Then he reaches for me. It’s barely a touch, just the tips of his fingers on my elbow, as if he’s planning to guide me back downstairs. Nothing really. And yet it’s everything.
The small contact burns, ripples outward along my skin with lightning-fast intensity, and my breath hitches.
His does too. A quick glance up, and he searches my face as though seeking an affirmation. Whatever he sees must tell him that he’s not alone in this because he doesn’t let go.
Neither of us says a word. Blood rushes hot and thick through my veins, as the backs of his fingers skim slowly, oh so slowly, up my arm. His pulse thrums, quick and visible just beneath the golden skin of his throat. I want to lick that spot, put my mouth there and suck. I want him. I want him so badly that I’m going up in flames.
A quiet, pained sound escapes me, as his knuckles drift toward my inner arm, just to the side of my breast. I’m shaking deep within myself, an increasing tremor that spreads outward, until my breath comes in choppy pants that I fight to control.
What am I doing? This is Drew Baylor. Nothing good can come of this. I need to be strong. I need to stop this. To walk away.
I lean into his touch, wanting, needing him.
His lips part with a sigh, as if touching me is both a relief and a source of pain.
Somehow my hand settles on his hip, the bone solid beneath his skin. He tenses, a visible clench that has his biceps bunching. The next instant, my fingers steal under his shirt.
His skin is hot, as if he’s burning up from within. My palm glides along rippling muscle, smooth and toned, the cotton of his shirt tickling the back of my hand as I go.
He holds so still that when he shivers it’s an earthquake. My questing thumb finds his nipple, and he stops breathing altogether. The little nub of his nipple beneath my thumb turns me on so much, I bite my lip to keep from moaning.
Oh, but it’s getting to him too. He swallows audibly, those little tremors within him growing stronger.
I press down hard.
With a choked cry, he stumbles forward, his forearm hitting the wall beside my head as he braces himself. Warm breath caresses my cheek, the sound of his panting filling my ears.
Shaking, Baylor stands so close that his vivid heat envelops me. I draw in his crisp, clean scent, and grow lightheaded. Unable to resist, I flick my thumbnail over his nipple. He grunts, his hips jerking as if pulled on a string. And then he retaliates.
His long index finger curls around the strap of my top. For a moment, he simply runs his finger up and down the strap, toying with it, each pass drawing closer to my breast. Then he tugs, sliding the strap over my shoulder by agonizing degrees.
Oh, God.
My lids flutter. I want to close my eyes but can’t. I’m stuck staring at his rapidly beating pulse, all of my awareness centered on the progress of my strap as it scrapes down my arm, peeling the top over the curve of my breast, which has grown heavy, aching. I don’t think I’ve ever been more conscious of my breasts, of my body.
The top slips further, exposing more skin.
Hurry, I want to cry. I’m shaking by the time the edge of my top catches on the hard bead of my nipple. Stuck.
We both seem to hold our breaths. Beneath my palm, his heart beats fierce and strong. I can feel his stare, covetous and hot. I want him to see me. I want to be exposed to him.
The sound of laughter drifts up, and the deep bass of music has the walls buzzing. Anyone could find us here, see him pulling down my top. As if he’s thinking the same thing, Baylor shifts his weight, sheltering my body from view with his own. That small gesture of consideration breaks my resistance.
Biting my lip, I arch my back at the very second he tugs again. My nipple pops free.
Baylor makes a sound that’s guttural. His breath is a rasp in my ear as his big hand cups my breast. The pleasure of his touch is so acute, it’s a relief, and then it’s far from that. I ache for more, and so deep down, that my sex clenches.
He doesn’t move, just stares at his tanned hand against the white of my breast, my pink nipple jutting out just over his fingers, as if he’s trying to make sense of things. Or maybe he’s just savoring the moment. His tongue darts out, and he licks his lower lip. Jesus, I want to lick it too.
The blunt tip of his thumb brushes over my nipple. Once, twice. He presses down.
A bolt of hot, sharp pleasure shoots to the empty space between my legs.
With a cry, I sag, slipping down the wall, my knees knocked out from under me. But he’s there, wrapping an arm around my waist. He holds me up. Holds me still. Gentle fingertips bracket my jaw and tilt my head up. I meet his eyes. Lust there, dark like burnt sugar. His gaze settles on my lips.
He dips his head, his breath buffeting my cheeks as he comes for me. Without thinking, I wrench my head to the side.
“No. Not on the lips.” It hurts to say it because the greater part of me is screaming. Yes. Now. Please.
But I can’t. A deep, undeniable instinct tells me that if he kisses my mouth, I’ll lose all resistance to him.
He hesitates, his brow furrowing. His gaze darts over my face, going from my lips and back to meet my eyes. A growl of frustration escapes him, then he swoops down.
My heart leaps, but his mouth lands on my neck, just above my shoulder. And I can’t think anymore. Just his lips touching my skin has me breaking out in goose bumps. He kisses my neck the way he’d kiss my mouth, open, wet, like he’s been hungering for this, waiting for this. Kisses tinged with anger. Like it’s a punishment for my refusal to let him have a proper kiss. Maybe it is, but it doesn’t matter because it feels so damn good that I’m not going to complain.
Hard kisses rain down over my shoulder, along my chest. He sinks to his knees as he goes. A brief, suckling kiss on my exposed nipple makes my entire body twitch, but he’s moving south, his hands caressing my sides, sliding over my hips. Calloused fingers trail up the backs of my thighs, gathering my skirt, lifting it up.
Oh, God. My breath hitches, an audible sound that catches his attention. Defiance is in his eyes, but I can stop him if I want to. The knowledge is thick and heavy between us.
I don’t move, much less protest. I’m so ready for him, I can’t stand it. If we stop now, it might all dissolve. Illicit excitement is a drug in my veins. The wall is cold against my heated shoulder blades, and I lean into it, trying not to crumple.
He watches me pant, and inches the skirt up, and up. Until my soaking panties are exposed.
I’m so wet there the air feels cold. As if he scents my desire, his nostrils flare, and he finally looks. He groans as though in pain. “Fuck. Holy fuck.”
My upper thighs are wet.
Fisting my skirt in one massive hand, he uses the other to ease my legs apart. I comply without protest. I want him to touch me so badly that I shake. My clit pulses in time with my heartbeat.
His fingers tug aside my panties before his thumb presses into my wet, swollen lips. I bite back a moan, as the world spins around me.
Baylor takes it all in, his thumb slowly stroking, slip-sliding through slick arousal. Holding my gaze, he leans closer, his lips nearly touching my aching flesh. “Stop me.”
My heart is in my throat. I want this so much, my voice is as rough as sand. “Stop yourself.”
He doesn’t. Doesn’t even try. Before I can take my next breath, his mouth is on my sex.
White lights pop beneath my lids, and I groan low and long. I can’t take it. The pleasure almost hurts.
Gritting my teeth, I grab the short, silken hairs on his head as if he can anchor me, keep me from spiraling into the dark vortex of need that’s pulling me down. But I can’t keep still. My hips rock against his mouth, the tight seam of my wrenched-aside panties rubbing my ass in a tormenting counterpoint to his tongue.
“Yeah,” he whispers against my skin. “Fuck yeah. Ride my mouth, Jones.”
Crude words that make me burn hotter. Sweat trickles between my breasts. My thighs tremble, and my sex throbs. I’m whimpering, incoherent, my hips writhing.
The hall is a dark tunnel, the party loud below us. Our exposed position has my heart threatening to pound out of my chest and highlights what he’s doing to me. The luscious wet sounds he makes, the little groans. The rough stubble on his jaw sanding my inner thigh, and the heat of his mouth. He’s feasting on me.
His big hand holds my hips. I can’t get away. I’m his. When his thick finger plunges inside of me, curling in toward some hidden, perfect spot as he sucks hard, I come with a suppressed scream that ravages my throat.
I’m falling into him, and he’s sweeping me up, wrapping my legs around his waist, as he stumbles into the room behind us. I’m too far gone to care if anyone is inside. Cool, quiet greets us.
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?
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.
Water pours over my face and runs into my eyes. I squeeze them shut. But it doesn’t stop those images from playing. Her rounded thighs spread wide. For me. A small thatch of curls, and plump, wet lips glistening. For me. I licked and sucked every inch of that prize. Her taste is still in my mouth.
“Shit.” My voice echoes in the shower.
And though goose bumps cover my skin, I’m hot again. And hard. The tip of my randy dick presses against the cold tiles, and I find myself nudging forward just to alleviate the pressure. Shit. I want her again. Now. Badly.
I don’t even try to stroke myself. It’s not going to help. The horny bastard wants Anna, not my hand. Besides, I recoil at the thought of jacking off to memories of her now like a pathetic beggar.
God, it was humiliating to watch the realization of what she did steal over her features and the horror creep into her eyes. She couldn’t get away from me fast enough. I’d sat back on my haunches in a fog of only partially satisfied lust, as she wrenched up her top and scrambled off the sofa. Her panties were a lost cause, apparently, because she simply fled the room with a mumbled “Sorry—bye” tossed my way.
She didn’t even let me kiss her. That burns the most. As if kissing me was so personal that she couldn’t bear it. As if she needed to relegate me to some random, meaningless fuck.
I groan again and run a hand over my face. My arms feel like lead, and I’m shivering. Slowly, I turn on the hot water and sink to the hard floor of the shower stall.
I’ve just experienced the hottest, most erotic, life-changing sex of my life, and I don’t think I’m going to get a repeat. Tonight was obviously an ill-advised hook up for her. And I’m so screwed because it was the best thing that has ever happened to me.