Лорен Блэйкли - Big Rock

“Because I’m having a great time playing pretend with you,” she says, and her right breast presses against my arm. She’s so soft, and I’m dying to know what her breasts feel like in my hands, how she’d respond to my fingers tracing circles across the sensitive flesh, the noises she’d make when I suck a nipple into my mouth.

How hard her nipples get from my lips.

There I go again.

Exactly where I shouldn’t be.

Her fingers are not inches, not centimeters, but now millimeters from the outline of my dick.

I know what to do, and at the same time, I don’t have a clue. My instincts tell me the moves to make, how to touch, how to kiss, how to fuck. But it’s like a page from the playbook is missing. A whole damn chapter even. Because this is Charlotte, and our situation is beyond bizarre. We’re friends and business partners. We’re fake lovers who aren’t fucking. Yesterday, we were sober and practicing kissing, and tonight we were performing for an audience.

Now all bets are off. It’s just us, and yet we’re still touching.

Neither one of us is operating at top-notch brainpower, though. I’m tipsy, but she’s highly buzzed. That’s got to be where all this persistent contact is coming from. It’s like the bar is trying to seduce us, to weave its spell on us. It’s dark, and everyone around us is touching, arms around waists, hands in pockets, lips on neck. Gin Joint is pulsing with dirty thoughts. It’s beating with the promise of midnight, and sex after dark.

My breath flees my chest when her fingers touch my hard-on. Her eyes light up, like she’s opening a gift, and that’s exactly how I want a woman to feel, but precisely how Charlotte should not fucking feel.

“Charlotte,” I say, my voice a harsh warning.

“Spencer,” she whispers, her lips pouty and sexy as she lingers on the last letter. When she does that, all I can see is her lips on my cock, her blonde hair spilling across my legs, her head bobbing up and down. It’s a glorious image, and a goddamn dangerous one.

The tempo shifts again when she simply rests her head on my shoulder, and returns her hands to her lap.

Like she turned off the light switch.

“I just like hanging out with you,” she says, her eyes fluttering, like she’s sleepy.

“I like it, too,” I rasp out. “And you’re tired.”

“I know. Long day. My pillow is calling out to me.”

Great. Fucking great. I’m turned on, and she’s sliding into the snooze zone. Her hands have settled down, her touchy-feely side has subsided, and I’m left with a massive fucking erection, and my best friend’s sexy-as-sin body snuggled by my side on a velvet couch.

Fifteen minutes later, we get in a cab. I give the driver Charlotte’s address, because I want to make sure my happy, tipsy, tired friend gets home safely. After the word “Lexington” leaves my mouth, I turn to look at her, and everything happens in a wild blur.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Her arms are around my neck and her mouth claims mine. She kisses me furiously, like a storm, a lightning storm of kisses raining down from the sky, bursting with heat and sparks and thunder.

She’s buzzed. I can feel it in the loose, languid way she moves, in the softness of her limbs, and in the panting in her breath. I taste gin on her lips, and the liquor has never tasted better in my life than when it’s mixed with Charlotte. Everything about her bombards my senses—her taste, her scent, her breath. I smell honey on her skin—she used honey blossom from that collection she showed me. Knowing this small detail about her, where this intoxicating scent comes from, makes the blood roar in my veins. Makes me want to know what she’ll smell like tomorrow. How she’ll taste the next day. When she gets out of the shower, what scent she’ll rub into her body, and whether it will drive me wild, too.

This honey smell is spectacular. Heady and bewitching and all her , and I know whatever she puts on the next day and the next will turn me on with the same raging intensity, because she is so fucking alluring.

Especially when she sucks on my lip like that. I groan and rope my arms around her, yanking her closer. She’s climbed up on me, straddling me in the back of the cab as it slings us up the avenue, the lights of late-night Manhattan whipping by.

She says my name again on a smoky moan. It sounds like an orgasm as it leaves her red lips. “ Spencer. I want you,” she whispers in my ear. “You got me so wet from that kiss yesterday. I’m so wet right now, too. Everything you do turns me on.”

Oh God. Oh hell. Oh, fucking save me from myself.

There is no way. I need to press the brakes. This car is speeding out of control. It’s going to crash in a fiery blaze. I have to stop it.

“Charlotte,” I warn, and I try to peel her off me, but what’s this now? She’s lifted up her skirt and positioned herself on the outline of my cock, and this is sweet, unholy torture of the highest degree. I breathe out hard as I gaze down at her. The cab slows at a light, and neither one of us gives a shit that the cab driver is three feet away. I can’t care about anything but the pure heat sizzling over my skin as she grinds against me. Her wet panties rub against my erection, and her lips are everywhere on me, like a sensual assault that comes so close to breaking me down. Her mouth moves to my neck, my chin, my jaw, as she travels to my ear. She slides her teeth across my earlobe and nips.

I moan and grip her hips harder. I fucking love it. I love everything she does. She flicks her tongue against the shell of my ear, and I might as well just wave the white flag and admit defeat, because she’s found my weak spot, and she seems to know it. She kisses me there, and every sweep of her tongue makes me harder, makes me want to haul her up to her home, throw her on her bed, slide into her and show her that if she can drive me crazy with a kiss, I can make her scream in pleasure with my cock.

She raises her hips, slams back down onto me, and whispers, “When I felt you on my couch it drove me wild. Completely wild.”

Her hand snakes between us, and she grabs my cock.

I’m electrified. Every inch of me buzzes with thousands of watts of power because she touches me through my pants. Her eyes shine with pure, unbridled lust as if she’s realizing how much there is of me, and, I hope, how much she wants me. Fuck, I want her to have it all.

Right now.

“I want to know how you feel inside me,” she murmurs.

A thousand responses fill my head. It’ll feel better than anything you’ve ever had. Unzip my pants, wrap your hands around my cock, and let me take you for the ride of your life. You’ll see stars, mountains will move, and the earth will shake.

The simplest answer, though, is the one I’m dying to utter.

God, I want to fuck you so fucking badly right now.

But thankfully, those aren’t the words that escape my lips. Somehow, the rational portion of my brain knows better. The gentleman inside me fights his way out, manages to squirm his way up, and resume control from the manwhore.

Charlotte is buzzed, and I will not take advantage of Buzzed Honest Charlotte.

“You’re drunk, Snuffaluffagus. Let’s get you in your jammies and put you to bed,” I say as I grip her hips to lift her off me.

She’s faster. She moves quickly, parking herself in her seat with more agility that I expected. She sneers, “I’m not drunk,” and it comes out surprisingly crisp and clear.

I’m not going to argue this point right now. Drunk or not, that was a far too risky moment. The cab slows at the next light, and she yawns loudly, covering her mouth. Her head sinks on my shoulder. Soon, I’m unlocking her door, carrying her to her bed, and sliding off her shoes. She murmurs something as her eyes flutter closed.