23. She’s a Knockout
She’s a Knockout
M y hand slides down to cup her ass, and finding nothing but bare skin, I pull back from our kiss.
“No underwear?” Her lipstick is smeared, a tantalizing stain on her swollen lips—proof of how long we’ve been tangled up, devouring one another through the pulse of several songs. “Is it to torture me?”
Her dark eyes gleam with mischief. “This dress requires full nude. I told you I was thinking about you when I made it. You’re just lucky you get to see me wearing it for the first time.”
Jesus fucking Christ.
I claim her mouth again, kissing her harder, deeper, like I might be able to drown in the taste of her. “Let’s get out of here.”
She hums against my lips. “You’re at your brother’s bachelor party.”
Right. “Let’s go to the bathroom then.”
With a chuckle, she pulls back just enough to search my face. “I have been in that bathroom. Trust me, that’s not a good idea.”
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
My whole body is on fire. Every nerve ending is attuned to her, every ounce of restraint hanging by a thread. I need to know if these desperate, all-consuming kisses have her as wrecked as I feel. If she’s as wet as I imagine. If her body is just as strung out with desire.
My gaze flicks around the room, just a cursory glance to ensure no one is watching too closely, before I let my hand drift lower, sliding down the front of her dress.
The second I make contact with slick skin, she stills, her green eyes going wide.
Then she bites her lip and subtly parts her legs just enough to let me in.
That’s a green light.
And green is my favorite fucking color.
My fingers graze her heat, and I nearly drop to my knees when I discover how soaked she is. “Jesus, baby.” I speak into her ear, letting my fingers tease along her folds, dragging the slickness up, circling her clit once—just enough to make her shudder. “This all for me?”
She gives a shaky moan, her hands clutching at my shirt before she pulls me down for another breathless kiss.
I press a finger inside her, swallowing her gasp as she clenches around me, her walls tight and molten-hot. “Shit,” she whimpers, dropping her forehead against my shoulder, her nails biting into my skin through the fabric of my shirt.
Around us, the bass thrums through the floor, the low lighting flickering over bodies swaying too close to notice what’s happening. The crowd pushes in like a perfect shield.
I slide my finger out before thrusting back in. “So sensitive.” I press a kiss to the shell of her ear. “You know how fucking crazy you drive me? Squirming in this little dress, soaking wet, desperate for me to make it better?”
Her her hips rock forward, seeking more. “Make it better. Please .”
I add another finger, stretching her open, relishing the way she takes me, how she tightens.
“Keep going. Oh, fuck— please! ”
Oh, I’ll keep going.
Mouth on hers now, I curl my fingers just right and stroke over that spot that makes her whole body tense, makes her grip on my shoulders turn bruising. I love making her come almost as much as I love knowing exactly how to do it. “Right there, baby?” I coax.
Her hips roll forward in a desperate attempt to chase the friction. “Yes, yes, yes...”
Fuck, this feeling . Knowing that I’m the one making her tremble. That we’re in the middle of this crowded dance floor, surrounded by oblivious people, and I’ve got her coming apart in my arms. It’s intoxicating.
I speed up my fingers, pumping into her harder, pressing one finger against her clit in tight circles. Her entire body shudders, her thighs clamping around my hand as she fights to keep herself standing.
“That’s it. Don’t stop,” she pleads, her breath hot and desperate against my neck.
Like I ever could.
I curl my fingers again, just a little sharper this time, and that’s all it takes. She comes with a shuddering moan, her lips an inch from mine. Her entire body shakes, her walls fluttering around my fingers in the most addictive way as I hold her through it.
When she finally sags in my arms, she lets out a breathless “Fuuuck.”
Fuck indeed.
I want to start all over again.
“You okay?” I say into her ear, my clean hand stroking her back soothingly.
She nods, then lifts her head to look at me. Her eyes are dark, a flush high on her cheeks. “More than okay.”
Her tongue slides against mine, and I’m more drunk on her than I am on alcohol. I reach for the side of her face, but before I can, I’m yanked backward, the force so abrupt that I stumble into the solid mass of people dancing behind me.
What the fuck?
Everything’s a blur of flashing lights and disoriented movement as I regain my footing, my heart slamming against my ribs. When I see the culprit, he grabs a fistful of my shirt.
“What the fuck are you doing, kissing my date?”
I study the polished and familiar blond man in front of me, and the words register, but they don’t make sense. My brain lags, still hazy with the lingering taste of Charlotte on my tongue, with how I had her body melting against mine only seconds ago.
“What?” My voice comes out uneven, caught somewhere between disbelief and confusion. “I’m not?—”
“Peter, let him go! Are you serious?” Charlotte shouts.
Peter ? The tight knot in my gut twists harder. Of course—that’s the guy who wanted me to get Charlotte drunk so he could take advantage of her. Did she come here with him ? Was she on a fucking date while she was letting me finger her?
I shake the thought away and refocus on Peter, who’s still got a death grip on my shirt.
“Wait—I know you, don’t I?”
I swallow, now actually nervous. Last time, he said he’d get me fired, and I just handed him ammunition. He just saw me kissing Charlotte.
“Yeah. Yeah—you’re the chef, aren’t you?”
“Look,” I say, raising both hands in the hope of placating him, “I didn’t know she was here with you, okay?”
He shoves me again, the force jarring. “Fucking prick—get out of my goddamn face.”
I try to unclench my jaw. Charlotte’s face is still flushed, her lips parted, her breath coming in quick, uneven bursts, and my mind flashes back to why she looks like that.
Something dark and possessive coils in my chest, and I meet Peter’s glare again. No matter how much trouble it’ll get me into, I won’t leave her here with this predator. “I don’t think so, all right?”
His eyes narrow. “Oh, you don’t think so?”
Jesus. Shoulders squared, fists flexing at his sides...this guy is spoiling for a fight.
“Not unless Charlotte comes with me.”
Peter’s lips curl like I just told the dumbest joke in the world. “Do I look like a fucking asshole?”
Yes , though it’s probably best I keep that to myself.
I glance around, hoping to spot one of my friends, but they’re nowhere to be found. Not that any of them would throw themselves into a fight. We’re grown-ass men, for fuck’s sake. What the hell am I doing?
“Charlotte,” I say, looking past him to where she’s still standing. “Let’s go.”
Before she can respond, Peter’s back in my space, chest brushing mine. “Excuse me?” He sneers before he shoves me a third time.
My first instinct is to swing, to push him back just as hard, to plant my knuckles into his stupid, arrogant face. But I force myself to breathe and push the anger down.
All I want is for Charlotte to come with me and get out of this place.
I look him dead in the eye, keeping my voice steady. “I’m not going to fight you, man. Okay?”
“Oh, you won’t?” He grins, like he’s been waiting for that answer, like he’s thrilled by the fact that I won’t hit him first. “You’re done, asshole. You can kiss your job goodbye.”
I don’t see it coming. One second I’m standing there, trying to keep my temper in check. The next, there’s a sharp, blinding crack as his fist slams into my eye.
The world tilts, pain exploding through my skull, white-hot and immediate, and my vision bursts with stars. My knees buckle, and then...
Nothing.
I shift the ice pack over my swollen eye, the cold biting into my skin. My fingers press lightly against the bruised flesh, testing the ache, before I lean back against the cinderblock wall of the holding cell.
The dim lighting does nothing to soften the harsh reality of where I am. A fucking jail cell .
On the bench opposite me, a couple of guys are sprawled out, one snoring lightly, the other slumped forward, his arms crossed as if he just gave up on the idea of staying awake.
For a second, I almost envy their ability to sleep through this.
My own nerves are buzzing too much to even consider closing my eyes.
The drive here sobered me up quickly, but my memory of what happened before that is patchy at best. Peter hit me—that part I remember clearly. A punch to the face, a blur of movement, Charlotte’s voice—but the rest? A hazy mess.
Charlotte.
Where is she?
Last I saw her, she was being handcuffed and led to a different police cruiser.
Fucking hell. Why did I drink so many shots?
My stomach twists, an uncomfortable, sickening churn. Is she okay? What happens when Beatrice hears about this? Because she will. That asshole will tell her we were there together. And Josie’s cop friends will tell her everything—about the fight, about Charlotte. The fallout will be brutal.
“Aaron?”
I jerk my head up as Max, Josie’s partner, appears on the other side of the bars. Relief slams into me me as I push off the bench and hurry over. “Max, thank fuck. You have no idea how glad I am to see you.”
He studies me, eyebrows drawn tight. “Shit. It’s really you. What the fuck happened?”
“Bachelor party gone wrong,” I say, wincing as I shift the ice pack. “I, uh...might have been with someone who...was there with someone else, apparently.”
“Yeah? Let me guess—her boyfriend didn’t take too kindly to it?”
“Something like that.”
“You seem to be into that sort of thing.” He adjusts his belt. “Who threw the first punch?”
Ignoring the comment, I say, “He did. I didn’t hit him back.”
His chin jerks back. “You didn’t?”
“No.”