Chapter 6
KOLTON
I glance over at our friends. Nico and Raven are touching any way they can, Lily and Sawyer leaning in close and talking fashion.
Sawyer may not be getting any, but I haven’t seen him this interested in talking to a woman in forever.
They’re all going with the flow. I deserve this night as much as they do. Probably more.
Shay may have a short fuse, but she’s absolutely gorgeous.
I sip my bourbon and step closer to her, but I can’t think of a thing to say. I shift on my feet, gripping my glass tighter by the second, my neck prickly and warm. Am I this far off my game? Have I lost the ability to flirt?
“What do you do?” I finally ask.
Apparently, my game is officially gone.
She frowns, the flirty woman from a moment ago nowhere to be seen. “Interior designer,” she says, her tone flat. Then she glances over my shoulder, and her eyes spark back to life. “Are those salt-and-vinegar chips?”
I glance at the bag of potato chips. “Yeah. Help yourself.”
A soft sigh later, she’s digging into the bag like she hasn’t eaten in weeks, while I pour another drink, still on edge.
Talking to this woman should be easy. I certainly have no problem arguing with her, but I suddenly feel off balance. Her moans of pleasure as she eats aren’t helping—low and throaty sounds, reminding me how long it’s been since I’ve even kissed a woman.
I remain mute, my blood pumping south faster than is comfortable, but damn, those curves of hers are enticing. The longer I watch her, the harder it gets to resist pressing her against the counter so I can swallow those sexy sounds.
I blink. Swallow. Try to get a handle on this intense attraction.
“The plastic isn’t edible,” I tease when she’s practically sucking the crumbs from the bottom.
She freezes, her jaw set and lips pursed. “I’ll eat the plastic if I want, but I appreciate you looking out for my girlish figure.”
I hold up my hands in surrender. “That was a joke, Shay. I’m sure you’ve heard of those on the other side of Canada.”
I regret my sarcasm the second I’m done. With today’s frustrations, and the way I can’t seem to act normal around Shay, I’m certainly earning the nickname Asshole.
“I can take a joke,” she says. When the others look our way, she turns her back to them and lowers her voice.
“You, however, are lacking in the conversation department. Your buddies seem pretty nice. Easygoing. But the guy who blindsided me today and can’t relax enough to hang out isn’t what I’d call fun. ”
I balk and gesture to my chest. “I’m the definition of fun.” But Shay looks pointedly at my other hand, which is clutching my glass so tightly the thing might shatter. “At least, I used to be,” I add, loosening my grip and my stiff stance.
Her eyes twinkle. “In the ice ages?”
“More like the paleolithic era.”
She hums, nodding. “That tracks.”
The sad truth of it.
I used to be a carefree guy, ditching school to hit the beach, putting off work if it meant more hours sleeping. I was even the president of my fraternity. I’m the guy who spent an entire night slathering butter in the hallways of our frat house and videoed suckers sliding around in the morning.
Now it’s all about the schedule—Jackson’s, mine. Work dominates every free minute I have. I need a drink to unwind these days. Responsibilities have dampened my ability to let loose.
Shay, apparently, sees right through me. But I see her, too.
“So, the chips,” I say. “Are you secretly training for the Chip Eating Olympics and you verbally attacked me because you’re worried I’ll reveal your inhaling technique to your competition, or do you have history with assholes who get on your case about food?”
It’s her turn to stiffen, those dark eyes narrowing at me. “Since we’ve all established you’re an asshole, I’d say the shoe fits in the present. But, yeah, I also have a history with that type of passive-aggressive human. My comments, however, weren’t a verbal attack.”
“True. Your voice was laced with enough sarcastic venom to kill every insect in a thirty-mile radius.”
“Clearly not enough.” She raises an eyebrow. “You’re still standing.”
There’s no controlling the lift of my lips. “It’s the thick layer of hostility I can’t seem to work off at the gym. Makes an excellent shield.”
She laughs, so sharply she looks surprised. “That also tracks.”
I nod to the empty chip bag still in her hand. “I have more chips, if you can let go of your hostility long enough to eat them.”
I cringe inwardly. That last part came out more challenging than the teasing I intended. Especially after hearing a man in her past was one of those insecure bastards who made women feel like crap to make themselves feel bigger.
Shay crumples the bag and launches it at the sink, looking like she wishes it was my head. “You may be hot and mildly amusing, but you’re just like every other dick who…”
She goes on some rant, her voice low and raspy, and I want nothing more than to hit rewind, be less provoking.
Make her laugh again, but my flirtation skills are so rusty they’re practically corroded.
I should leave the condo and put us both out of our misery, but I can’t tear my eyes from the edge of red lace peeking out from the low neckline of her gray top, the swell of her breasts stretching the fabric.
The longer she complains about God knows what, the more her shirt shifts.
More red lace. More skin.
What is wrong with me, lusting after someone I can’t quit bickering with?
“You’re not even listening to me,” she chastises. “And my eyes are up here.”
Hot and bothered and hard as hell, I crack my neck. “Sorry. I’m just…” Wishing I knew how to calm down and talk to you. Shake this painful awkwardness.
She rolls her eyes on a sigh, clearly enamored with my conversation skills. “Where’s your bathroom?”
“Down the hall. First door on your left.”
She blows past me, and I slump.
I’ve seriously lost my mojo. Marina and I never dated.
We fell in love at fifteen and didn’t look back.
There was no awkward flirting, no need to impress.
Aside from our disastrous first year at university where we went to different schools, things were easy.
Then with Moondog and the boys, hooking up was never hard.
Sawyer would reel women in, and I’d play along.
The past year, though, I’d down at least two fingers of bourbon when out on a date, always taking a cab so I could relax. I got tired of the effort involved. Tired of comparing everyone to Marina. But I’m still a guy, and my recent dry spell is clearly sapping my ability to function normally.
I shift my jeans as I picture that red lace and what Shay must look like beneath it.
At least she gets me fired up. Puts me on the defensive, but there’s passion there.
Without Jackson and work and my million everyday decisions, I should be able to get my flirt on with her for one night. Act more normal and actually converse.
I’m in Aspen, for fuck’s sake.
Putting down my glass, I kick off the counter to catch her when she leaves the bathroom.
Arms crossed, I stand in the hallway and stare at the door, trying to think of the right thing to say to her.
Something kind, this time. A way to tell her how attractive she is without coming across as crass, but my neck heats. Sweat gathers on my palms.
You’re beautiful and I’d like to kiss you is pathetically lame.
By the time the door swings inward, my thoughts are no closer to coherent. She steps toward the hallway, and I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. Her eyes are downcast, her focus on her breasts as she reaches in to adjust that red bra. More lace. More skin.
My words don’t form, but my body moves.
Before she looks up, I’m pushing her back into the bathroom and kicking the door shut behind me. I pin her against the counter, our bodies flush, my erection straining, and I’m about to slam my mouth on hers—action is clearly easier than words—but reason takes hold.
I pull back, unsure why I’m putting the moves on a woman who probably hates me.
Then she says, “Now’s not the time to get shy.”
Maybe hate is a strong word.
Roughly, I claim her lips. No more trying and failing to talk. No more snarky remarks. Hunger consumes me, every irritation from today releasing as our tongues collide and chests heave. And fuck, those lips—even softer than they look, but sure and demanding.
I wrap one arm around her waist and cup her breast with my free hand, drawing out a gratifying whimper as I rock against her and tease her nipple through the thin fabric of her shirt.
Burning and frantic, we claw at each other.
The movement of our hips inches her skirt higher. I grip her waist and lift her onto the sink, her legs falling wide for me, a tease of red peeking out from between her thighs.
Her head falls against the mirror at her back, her eyes drifting shut when I drag my hand up her toned leg. “God, yes,” she says and shudders as I slip a finger under the lace.
Slick wetness greets me.
She rocks against my hand, circling her hips as I slide a second finger in.
Gripping my shoulders, she pants, her nails digging through my shirt.
I suck a path to her cleavage, and she arches toward me, asking for more.
Demanding it. I bite her skin, marking her sensitive flesh, and I finally pull her neckline lower. Man, that red lace.
“Shit.” She jerks forward and rubs her ass where it just hit the tap. I ease my fingers out, eliciting a sigh from her, then she narrows her eyes. “That’s courtesy of you, Asshole.” She lifts her skirt higher, displaying a purple bruise.
Sharp breaths spike through me as I hike up my top and lower the side of my jeans, the yellow tinge on my hip unmistakable. “Back at ya, Bitch.”
We’re still name-calling, but there’s an underlying teasing quality now, and I like it.
She grips my dick over my jeans and gives a squeeze, naughty and damn nice. I sink a hand into her hair and tug harder than necessary, tipping her head so I can taste the smooth skin along her neck. She moans, grips me tighter, and my vision blurs.
I grab her ass and haul her to the edge of the counter, her skirt practically at her waist now, those fuck-me boots still on, and I’m ready to explode.
Fire in her eyes, cheeks flushed, she hooks her legs around my waist and rips the elastic from my hair.
Our tongues tangle as I fumble with my belt buckle.
When I get it apart, she eases the zipper down, discovering I fly commando.
A soft “Jesus” later, she bites my neck as her hand explores my dick.
And, fuck.
My life, this room, this awful day…all of it fades. Nothing is left but the heat of her palm wrapped around me, her needy sounds getting me harder.
Reaching between her thighs, I grip the lace, give a solid pull, and tear it in half. I fling it at the door and press my length against her, all that heat and wetness rubbing up and down.
Rocking. Biting. Hands pulling.
Damn right, Shay’s a tiger, and I can’t wait another second.
I dig a condom Sawyer gave me out of my jeans pocket, roll it on in record time, then I grip her ass and push in so quick we both gasp. She shoves my jeans farther down, leans back to get me where she wants me.
And I want to be here. Right here.
I don’t ease in and out of her, don’t take it slow. I latch one arm around her hips, plant my other palm on the mirror behind her, and drive so hard she clutches my shoulders to keep from falling.
She’s barely able to move as I plunge deeper with each thrust. Her leather boots scratch the bruise on my hip, her hand in my hair, tugging hard. Just the tip of her red lace bra pokes out, but her breasts bounce in time to our rhythm.
Heat gathers at my spine, shooting south. So fucking close.
Her hips roll, both of us panting heavier. A sheen of sweat glistens on her neck.
Knowing I won’t last, I slip my hand from the mirror and guide my thumb between us. She squeezes her knees tighter and clamps her teeth on my shoulder. Her muffled cries push me over the edge, her body convulsing, and liquid fire lights through me.
I pump into her harder, faster, my knees almost giving out, my mouth in her hair as I try not to scream the Christ and Shay and fucks I can’t swallow as I come like a fucking freight train.