Chapter 10 #2
“Weeks,” I confirmed. And then I stopped thinking entirely. I looked at him. Really looked at him. At the sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth, the way he was looking at me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.
I want to kiss him. Not a friendly kiss.
Not a polite kiss. A real kiss. The kind of kiss that meant something.
The kind of kiss that changed things. And before I could talk myself out of it, before the rational part of my brain could remind me of all the reasons this was a terrible idea, I leaned in and kissed him.
It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t tentative. It was hungry and desperate and a little clumsy because we were both drunk and the angle was wrong at first. I had to adjust, tilting my head, and then my mouth was on his, my tongue sliding past his lips, tasting tequila and salt and something uniquely him.
For half a second, he froze, and I thought, Oh God, I’ve made a terrible mistake.
But then his hands were in my hair, pulling me closer, and he was kissing me back with the same desperate hunger, and I stopped thinking entirely. His mouth was hot. Demanding. His tongue tangled with mine, and I made a sound I didn’t recognize. Something between a gasp and a moan.
He swallowed it and deepened the kiss, his hands sliding from my hair to my waist, pulling me onto his lap. I went willingly, straddling him, my thighs on either side of his hips, and immediately felt the hard length of his dick pressing against me through his sweatpants.
Oh.
Oh.
I rocked against him experimentally, and he groaned into my mouth, the sound vibrating through both of us. “Fuck,” he breathed against my lips.
I did it again, grinding down, as his hands tightened on my waist, fingers digging into my skin through my shirt. “Viv,” he said, voice rough.
“Don’t,” I murmured. “Don’t think. Don’t talk.
Just—” I kissed him again, harder this time, more demanding, and his hands slid under my shirt, fingers splaying across my bare skin.
I gasped at the contact. His hands were warm, slightly rough, and they felt perfect.
I pulled back just long enough to yank my shirt over my head.
I fumbled with it, got my arm stuck for a second, and we both laughed, breathless, giddy laughter, before I finally got it off and tossed it somewhere behind me.
Quinton’s eyes went dark as he stared at me. At my black lace bra, at the curve of my breasts, at the rapid rise and fall of my chest. “Jesus,” he whispered. Then his mouth was on my neck, kissing, sucking, teeth grazing my skin, and I arched into him, my hands fisting in his hair.
“Quinton.”
“Tell me to stop,” he said against my throat, words slightly slurred. “Tell me this is a bad idea and I’ll stop.”
“Don’t you dare stop.”
He pulled back and looked at me. His eyes were wild, pupils blown. “You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“You have a boyfriend.”
“I know.”
“This is—”
“I know.”
“We work together.”
“I know.”
“Viv—”
I kissed him. Hard. Silencing whatever rational thought he was about to voice.
Because I didn’t want rational. I didn’t want careful.
I wanted this. I wanted him. I reached for the hem of his shirt, and he helped me pull it off.
Our movements were uncoordinated, elbows bumping, and when it finally came free, we were both laughing again. “Smooth,” I said.
“Shut up,” he said, but he was grinning.
And oh.
Oh.
I had seen him in scrubs. I had seen him in casual clothes.
But I had never seen him like this. Bare-chested.
Muscular. A light dusting of hair across his chest, trailing down his stomach, disappearing into the waistband of his sweatpants.
I ran my hands over his chest, felt the hard planes of muscle, the heat of his skin, the rapid beat of his heart under my palm.
“You’re staring,” he said, voice rough.
“You’re beautiful.”
He laughed. A short, breathless sound. “I’m really not.”
“Shut up.”
I kissed him again, slower this time, deeper, as my hands explored his chest, his shoulders, the strong column of his neck. His hands found the clasp of my bra and he fumbled with it for a second.
“Fuck,” he muttered against my mouth. “How does this—”
I reached back and helped him, and we both laughed as it finally came undone.
He slid it off my shoulders, and I let it fall.
He pulled back and looked at me. “Fuck me,” he breathed, then his mouth was on my breast, tongue circling my nipple, and I gasped, my head falling back, my hands gripping his shoulders.
“Quinton—”
He sucked hard, and I moaned. Actually moaned.
His hand found my other breast, thumb brushing over the sensitive peak, and I rocked against him again, feeling the hard ridge of his erection pressing against my pussy through our clothes. The friction was good but not enough. Not nearly enough.
“Need.” I managed. “I need—”
“What?” His voice was rough, breathless. “What do you need?”
“More. Everything. You.”
He stood, lifting me with him, and I wrapped my legs around his waist. He took two steps toward the hallway and stumbled, catching himself against the wall.
We both froze. Then we started laughing. Real, genuine laughter that shook both our bodies.
“Smooth,” I said.
“I’m a little drunk,” he admitted.
“Just a little?”
“Okay, a lot drunk.”
“Me too.”
“Good.” He kissed me again, pressing me against the wall right there in the living room. “Then we’re both making equally terrible decisions.”
“The best terrible decisions.”
His hands slid down to my ass, gripping, lifting me higher against the wall, and I could feel every inch of his hard cock pressing against me. I ground down against him, and he groaned.
“Fuck, Viv.”
“That’s the idea.”
He laughed against my neck, then bit down gently on the sensitive skin there, and I gasped.
“Bedroom,” I managed. “We should—bedroom—”
“Right. Bedroom. Good idea.”
He pushed off the wall and carried me down the hallway, weaving slightly, and kicked open a door.
We had made it three steps into the room before he tripped over something, a shoe, maybe, and we went down.
We landed on the bed in a tangle of limbs, bouncing slightly, and immediately dissolved into laughter.
“Are you okay?” he asked, hovering over me.
“I’m perfect.”
“You are,” he said, suddenly serious. “You really are.”
Then he was kissing me again, and I forgot about the stumbling, forgot about everything except the weight of him on top of me, the heat of his skin, the taste of his mouth.
His hands went to the button of my jeans, and he fumbled with it. “Fucking—” he muttered. “Why are jeans so complicated?”
I giggled. Actually giggled. “Here, let me.” I reached down and helped him, and together we managed to get the button undone and the zipper down. He hooked his fingers in the waistband and pulled, and I lifted my hips to help. The jeans stuck halfway down my thighs.
“Seriously?” I said.