Chapter 25
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Jamie led Brinton through a hallway she hadn’t noticed before. A tattooed bouncer waved them through a narrow door. It dropped them off in the same empty alley where, a few hours ago, Brinton had considered punting Jamie through the SUV’s passenger side window.
Now, she was desperate to relieve the pressure, intense as an unwatched kettle. Two-hundred-twelve degrees of canned heat between her thighs.
Considering how anxiety had whittled her sex drive toothpick-thin, this was almost inconceivable.
The thought of sex with a man usually sent her spiraling, prompting a greatest hits reel of her imperfections: the heavy sag of her breasts and tiny spider veins creeping up her inner thighs, or the telltale slapping of her round belly in practically every position.
Sex had become a highly efficient solo sport, a short-lived distraction from the barrage of intrusive thoughts. Yet, beneath the electric blue haze spilling from the lanterns above, Jamie unlocked an urgency she refused to suppress.
And it was mutual.
When the heavy door shut behind them, a switch flipped. Jamie walked her backward until her shoulders brushed the brick wall behind her. He seemed to enjoy caging her body with his own so his eyes could skate over her freely.
It was warm, the air thick as gauze. But as he watched her, an undeniable flash of desire bolted up her spine. Her thighs clenched instinctively.
“You are so fucking beautiful,” he said through shallow breaths that matched hers. “Can I kiss you?”
It was less of a question and more an urgent plea.
“Yes.”
Jamie cupped her face. Massaging her jaw between his thumbs, he coaxed out a fractured whimper and everything else she’d felt since that red carpet.
His pressure was firmer than she expected, his lips velvety soft and so fucking warm as they glided against hers. Brinton sucked his tongue deeper into her open mouth until she swallowed his defiant groans.
Suddenly, he broke their kiss.
“You ever been fucked by a country boy?” Jamie asked, dragging his thumb from her jaw and down her throat.
She shook her head, whining in protest.
“Mm, I highly recommend it.”
Slowly, Brinton traced the thin gold chain around his neck, which gleamed beneath the blue fluorescent lights. It felt cool between her fevered fingers. Something about it—the unabashed sluttiness, the inferred dominance—made her feral.
She wanted to grip it with her teeth.
“Come here,” he growled, so low that the apex of her thighs flooded with warmth.
Brinton lifted her chin to meet his lips, but Jamie wrapped the length of her ponytail around his fist, giving it a gentle tug that cracked her open like an egg. It thrilled her. Almost as much as she liked him telling her what to do. Her body throbbed with need.
She raked her nails down his back, showing him how much she wanted him, even if it frightened her to say. She didn’t want to wake up from the fantasy. Her cruel inner monologue reminded her daily that she wasn’t quite good enough for anyone’s time, care, or respect.
But Jamie, this living, breathing Adonis, saw something in her she didn’t previously see in herself. Now, little by little, she could.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” she moaned instead. This didn’t happen to women with baggage like hers.
His mouth claimed hers again, and her body vibrated.
His thick erection nudged her cleft. A wicked grin spread across his perfect lips. “Believe it now?”
“Fuck, Jamie…”
When he moaned in her mouth, she sucked his bottom lip, delighted to know he was as wrecked as her.
Brinton laced her hands through his hair, silken waves with earthy notes of sandalwood. She relished how his back and shoulders tensed each time she tugged. The power she felt was unmatched.
“I like that,” he breathed against the shell of her ear.
“Show me.”
He laughed, low and dark, then flooded each side of her neck with feathery kisses. “Tsk-tsk,” he teased. “I told you, I’m gonna take my time.”
Jamie’s fingertips traversed the length of her arms, prompting her nipples to tighten so intensely that her eyes rolled backward. Her nails sank into his biceps.
He was barely even touching her and she was embarrassingly wet. Needy for him to do something.
Touch me. Take me. Fold me in half.
As if taking the cue, Jamie’s hands found the hem of her cut-offs. He massaged the frayed denim, a few inches from where she wanted him most.
“These fucking little shorts,” he said, voice as smokey as the anejo shots inside the bar. “Been driving me crazy all night. The way you move in them should be a crime.”
“I can’t be held liable for gravity.” She laughed.
She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer. His sweet breaths coated her lips like nectar.
Jamie’s hands slid to her ass. Brinton gasped, enthralled when he roughly massaged each cheek.
“I love your body.” He grunted softly. “Every damn inch of you is perfect.”
“I’m not”—another gasp—“perfect.”
Jamie shook his head as his fingers gripped the back of her neck, gentle but firm pressure that forced her to lift her chin and look at him.
Her lips parted on a gasp.
“You are to me,” he said, voice like iron.
Shifting to her breasts, Jamie’s massive hands worked her until her head collapsed backward and she unleashed a low, rumbling moan. This only invigorated his tactics.
His thumbs slowly circled each nipple until they were pleasingly tender, and the strangled words coming out of her mouth sounded closer to the gibberish Missy Elliot perfected in “Work It.” Dragging her higher, Jamie alternated between pulling and lightly twisting, based on what made her arch into him.
“That’s it, Bee. Keep moaning for me. Do you know what you’re doing to me? Fuck, I—”
Suddenly, her hands had a mind of their own, and it even took her by surprise when she found one massaging his crotch. The other squeezed his ass.
“I think I have an idea.” She grinned.
Head bowed against her chest, Jamie shuddered as his thick erection rocketed into her palm, heavy and straining through his jeans. She couldn’t wait to feel him inside her.
Brinton squeezed him there, hoping he’d take the hint.
“Such a good girl,” Jamie groaned decadently. He tugged her ponytail again, and her belly clenched with satisfaction.
She was a feminist, dammit. But the way the words dripped off his tongue, viscous and vital. A new kink unlocked. Brinton made a note to unpack this when she wasn’t preoccupied with such an excellent bulge.
“Always fucking surprising me,” he murmured against her throat, hips still rocking. He steadied a hand against the cold brick. His other greedily squeezing her breast.
“Oh my God, Jamie,” she whispered back, knotting her hands in his T-shirt. She slipped one beneath to explore his lean stomach, which she hadn’t stopped obsessing over, and traced her fingers through the soft hair leading into his waistband.
“Say it again,” he said. He nudged her legs apart with his broad thigh.
Brinton moaned his name as his palm settled between her thighs, which trembled on contact. He stroked her as if by memory, knowing exactly which strings to pluck, how long to hold each pulsating note.
“I’m desperate to feel how soft and wet you are,” he gritted out. Through clipped breaths, he watched her buck against his palm, frantic enough that she now craved the bite of rough denim against her damp, sensitive skin. Anything to get her closer to letting go.
“So wet,” she whispered, the last ounce of reservation leaving her body.
Jamie’s lips parted into a satisfied smile. His eyes were heavy-lidded, like he was in a sensation-fueled daze. Like he could savor her like the smoothest Tennessee whiskey.
The whole scenario was a lucid dream: she, a hot mess, was about to have sex with a ruthlessly hot man. In a back alley that smelled faintly of Nashville hot chicken.
Fuck it, it’s fine!
“Do you know how long I’ve wanted this?” Jamie slipped his hand from her thighs to cradle her face.
His kiss was so tender she almost forgot that she wanted him to yank off her clothes. Almost.
“Hmm,” she hummed against his lips. “After I smoked you in cornhole?”
He laughed. “No, way before that.” Jamie pulled back but still cupped her jaw with both hands. “The second I held you on that red carpet. Couldn’t get you out of my head. Still can’t.”
“Ah, maybe you should talk to somebody about that,” she said, grinning.
He reached for her shorts and popped the top button. “Yeah? Sounds like the best problem to me.” His fingertips teased the open edge. Jamie’s thumb traced across her navel, stopping at her lacy panty line.
There was a question in his eyes.
Yes, she could live in the moment. She could be a little reckless. She could let Jamie Crawford Jr. dick her down beneath the neon lights.
“Please,” she said, so softly that she considered he had simply read her mind.
Jamie tugged down her zipper. “You ain’t never gotta beg me, Bee. I’ll gladly give you what you want.”
His thumb dipped into her panties, pressing her open and gliding with gratifying ease.
Brinton’s head lolled backward against the brick wall. Her knees buckled from his long, languid circles, but she’d be damned if she told him to stop.
He felt so fucking good. Too fucking good.
Equally satisfied, Jamie groaned. He pressed the rest of his fingers into her exposed belly, grounding her into place.
Way too soon, Jamie dragged his thumb away. He slipped it between his lips. Savoring her, his eyes closed, he sucked.
“I knew it,” he said, voice strained thin. “Like pure fucking honey.”
As usual, Brinton’s anxious mind did somersaults. Her eyes squeezed shut.
How does one fuck in shorts? Why is there not a manual on this?
“You all right?” he asked, sensing her apparent agitation.
“Yeah,” she replied earnestly. “Don’t stop.”
He eased two thick fingers inside her, bringing her back into her blissed-out body. She keened like a needy cat and clenched around him.
“So damn tight, honey,” he murmured. “I fucking love it. You need more? I wanna—”
“Do it,” she whined.
Jamie rewarded her with a third finger. Electricity propelled her hips forward as he massaged and thrusted and teased his way deeper, until she felt each of his knuckles strain inside her.
God, she needed more pressure, more of him.
Matching her frustration, Jamie threw his head back. His throaty groan spoke volumes.
“If we were in my bed—”
“Yes—”
“I’d make you ride me real slow.” He hooked a thumb into her belt loop and tugged her hips forward. “I wanna watch you take me, Bee. ’Til we can’t fucking talk straight. I want you all over me.”
“You’re an artist.” She laughed, breathless. “Improvise.”
“Yes ma’am.”
Through a fiendish smile, he slipped his fingers from inside her, then hoisted her thighs around his hips until her back scraped the brick wall.
She yelped.
His eyes, navy pools beneath the blue lantern, stretched with concern. “Baby, did I hurt you?”
Brinton shook her head. It felt fucking fantastic. Crossing her ankles, she let him kiss it better.
“Do you have a—”
“Yeah,” he answered, teeth grazing her collarbone.
When Jamie pulled the foil packet from his wallet, it triggered that familiar onslaught of panic, which clouded her mind like smog.
How many other people—and creatures—had pressed their bodies against this grimy wall? When was the last time I washed my fucking hands? What if I’m not good enough?
“What if…someone sees us?” she asked, too self-aware for her own good.
“Don’t worry, nobody’ll come back here.” With his free hand, he undid his belt and unzipped his fly. “This is my spot.”
Of course.
This was as routine as tuning his guitar or cold beers with the boys on Fridays. This was routine for the Heartbreak Prince, a persona. And apparently, the man.
No, Brinton couldn’t do this.
Her body went slack and she pressed her hands against his chest.
Immediately, he dropped his and set her back on the ground.
Jamie put a good three feet between them as she readjusted her shorts. When he looked down at her this time, worry clouded his eyes.
“Is everything okay?” He was still catching his breath. “Did I do something wrong?”
“This isn’t something I do,” she said, practically wheezing. Brinton circled her hands around the darkened alley. She was a fool to think she was somehow special, that they were each inching out onto a precarious limb for one another.
“I’m not just another girl you folded in half in a dark alley.”
“Fold you in—slow down a second…”
“And you wouldn’t know that because we barely know each other.”
“But I want to know you—more than I can even say. I like you, Brinton,” he said, gently cupping her jaw again. “Is this about the article?”
Brinton angled her face away. Now that he’d said it, she couldn’t ignore it, as hard as she had tried all night.
It was one thing to be a number in his sisterhood of traveling groupies. That indignity lanced her heart.
It was worse that she was also putting her article at risk. Sleeping with a source was an ethical quagmire. While not illegal, it could slash the single thread of integrity holding her together, especially as a female journalist. As a Black woman fighting for opportunity.
What she wanted and what she needed had finally collided in spectacular fashion.
She didn’t know what to say. Yet, she had to say something. “We’re so wildly crossing a line, I can’t even comprehend it.”
He twisted that signet ring around his finger, then smoothed a few errant waves from his eyes. For the first time, they appeared dull.
“Okay.”
“So what do we do now?” she asked, perhaps more to herself than him.
“Try to behave ourselves, I guess?” He laughed humorlessly, eyes cast down to the sticky asphalt.
A moment later, his eyes found hers again.
“I don’t regret any of this, for what it’s worth,” he said.
She didn’t either. But she couldn’t tell him that, not when the wound was so fresh. “Thanks for the dance,” she said.
Jamie nodded and texted Michael. Neither Brinton nor Jamie spoke a word the entire drive home.