The Hook Up (Game On Book 1) (7 page)

The masochist in me kind of likes it. I sure as hell love it when she’s all snappy and taking me to task. If I could get her to do it while I suck on her neck, feeling the vibrations of her voice as she talks, or maybe have those creamy legs wrapped around my back while she’s doing it, and I’d push into her heat, making her groan just a little between arguments.

I take a deep breath. And another. I’m so screwed if Gray sees me with a hard on. Thank God for jeans. And the fact that Gray is still babbling too much to look down.

“Sex shouldn’t be work,” he insists. “It should be easy. Girls come to us, give us a good time, and we send them on their way with a nice thank you and maybe a pat on the ass if they’re extra special.”

“I pity your bed partners.”

“They have a good time,” Gray says. “A great time.”

“Sure. You let them do all the work while you lay back like a lazy shit. Sounds awesome for them.”

He gives me a sour look. “Well, you sound like a girl.”

“If I was one, I wouldn’t be fucking you.”

“You could do a lot worse—” His face goes red. “Damn. Would you stop that shit? I hate when you make me twist my words.”

I can’t help grinning. Anna seemed to like it when I twisted her words, until she fled that is. And there’s that pathetic sigh again, making me sound like a sap. Damn, but I want to talk to her.

Maybe she thinks I want what Gray’s offering. A simple hook up. Maybe I ought to tell her I want more. I want her. The whole prickly-mouthed, sweetly curved, irresistible package.

Telling her that wouldn’t be stalking, would it? Shit, I don’t even know. Gray’s right in one regard, I obviously suck at pursuing. But if there’s one thing I understand, it’s practice. I excel at perfecting my technique through practice.

Anna still hasn’t come back down the stairs. Which means I’m going up.

“If my efforts bother you so much,” I say to Gray without taking my eyes off the shadowed hallway that leads to the second floor, “I’d look away now.” I give him a light slap on the chest and head off.

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 them leaving little doubt as to why. The hall is empty—people probably going back downstairs as soon as they realized 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 am not willing 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 flush, 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 and, taking another calming breath, 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, and my thoughts scatter. His eyes, intense and determined, are all I see.

And all I can think of is that we are alone together. 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, his eyes going wide and his lips parting. But he commits to them with a squaring of his broad shoulders. “Tell me you don’t want me too, 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. It’s the smallest of contact. 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 another 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 twitch, leaning into his touch, wanting, needing
him
more.

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, 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 there, so close that his heady scent and vivid heat envelop me. I draw that crisp, clean scent in, 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, his 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 more and so deep down that my sex clenches.

He doesn’t move, just stares at his tanned hand against the white my breast and 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 as he licks his lower lip. Jesus, I want to lick it too. I hold still.

The blunt tip of his thumb brushes over my nipple. Once, twice, then presses down.

A bolt of hot, sharp pleasure shoots to the empty space between my legs.

On 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, and his own part. 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 with his frown. His gaze darts over my face, going from my lips and back to meet my eyes. A growl of frustration escapes him as he swoops down. My heart leaps, but his mouth lands on my neck, just above my shoulder. And I can’t think any more. 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 me 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 stop him.

Hard kisses rain down over my shoulder, along my chest, and 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 as he glances up at me. I can stop him if I want to. The knowledge is thick and heavy between us. But I can’t move, much less protest. I’m so ready for him, I can’t stand it. If we move, 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 as I lean into it, trying not to crumple. Still he watches me and inches the skirt up and up. 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 thought. 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. Jesus. 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 by 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, the heat of his mouth. He’s feasting on me. His big calloused hand holds my hips. I can’t get away. I’m his. And when his thick finger plunges inside of me, curling in towards some hidden, perfect spot as he sucks hard, I come with a suppressed scream that ravages my throat.