He turned in his stool, taking me with him, pinning my back against the bar as his hands kept me glued to his lap, his mouth breaking from me long enough to speak.
“You want more?” he whispered. “Cause I want to feel the inside of your mouth before I send you back to him.”
“I want more,” I gasped.
Two minutes later, we were in the bathroom.
I didn’t think places like this, bars smaller than my walk-in closet, had bathrooms. But this one did. A tiny cube, a pedestal sink screwed to the wall, condom dispenser on the wall, a drain beneath my feet. Thirty square feet, max.
The door slammed shut as my back pushed it closed, his hands forcing the action, the taste of beer on his tongue as we kissed. His hands, pulling at my shirt, yanking it over my head. A quick flip of his hands freed my bra, his hands skimming the straps off my shoulders. Our kiss hot and fevered, I pushed any rational thought from my head and enjoyed the moment, enjoyed the touch of a man who could not get enough.
He took a break from my mouth, dropping his head and staring, like he had never seen br**sts before, a heavy sigh tumbling from him as he scooped them into his hands, his hold tender, his gorgeous mouth—when he dropped it to their surface—not. “God, these are beautiful.” He nibbled the delicate skin, inhaled deeply as his tongue circled my nipple, sucked one into his mouth, and devoured each in turn as my head dropped back against the door. I heard the metal of his belt, the ting of it against tile as his jeans dropped, my own hands helping to skim his shirt off his torso until he was naked before me, his head coming off my chest, his eyes, when they met mine, showing the breaking point of his control. And God, he was hard. I could see it in my peripheral vision, felt it as it bumped against me.
“Get on your knees,” he rasped.
I had no interest in getting on that floor. I’m pretty sure it hadn’t seen the scrub of a mop in months. But I had every interest in taking him in my mouth. Every interest in making his look of raw lust continue. I snagged his pants, created a pillow for my knees, and knelt down before him.
God bless. Even though I’d done this a hundred times, it felt different. Opening my mouth, wrapping my hand around the complete stiffness that was his cock, licking my lips and hearing him inhale… I had never been this wet. Never wanted this so much. Never desired a hard hand on the back of my head, an impatient shove, to look up in a man’s eyes and see disrespect and desire all rolled into one heated stare. I dove down on his cock, pumped my hand, inhaled through my nose, and took as much of him as I could, gagging at times, my mouth finding a rhythm, sucking and withdrawing, sucking and withdrawing, the groans from his mouth letting me know I was doing it well.
I sucked him until my jaw hurt and his hands yanked me up. Ripped down my shorts, the button flying somewhere, my body naked before him, his hands spinning me until we both faced the dirty mirror, our eyes wide, chests panting. Something outside bumped against the door, reminding me of our location. “Bend over,” he growled, and I did, moving my legs back until I was leaning against the sink, staring at our reflection as he looked down, wrapped his cock, tested my pu**y, and then shoved inside.
I gripped the sink and tried not to scream, but ohmygod I was addicted.
Chapter 23
We returned to the bar, two warm beers waiting, the bar twice as full as when we left, meaning that six bodies now dotted the tiny landscape. He picked up the glass, downed the drink, then pushed the empty glass forward. “Thanks for the beer.”
I raised my eyebrows. Ignored my own. Dug my cell out from my pocket and checked for missed calls. Zero. “Thank you for the beer.”
He waved to the bartender, a man in a tight shirt, one who gave me a smile that I was pretty sure was mocking me for our bathroom playtime. “Naw. I’m pretty sure your drinking and f**king budget is bigger than mine. I’ll be in the truck.” He swung by me, shaking a few hands and slapping backs on his way out, his stride relaxed, confident.
I looked back at the bartender, who wiped down the counter and gave me an expectant look. “He got a tab?”
“Not one he’s paid recently.” The man reached for our glasses, raised an eyebrow at my full one before dumping them both in the sink.
“Figures.” I dug in my pocket, coming up with a twenty, and smacked it down on the counter. “Thanks.”
“No problem. Always great to see one of Lee’s girls.”
I paused in my exit, turning around to glare at him. “I’m not one of his girls.”
The man snorted back a laugh, shrugging as he plucked up the cash, stuffing it in his front pocket. “Whatever.”
One of Lee’s girls. I wish I’d driven. Wished I could get back into my car and return to luxury. Instead, I crawled up into his jeep. Suffered the ten-minute car ride back to the convenience store, the wind whipping my hair as his speakers crackled through the bass beats of Florida Georgia Line.
He came to an abrupt stop behind my car, his eyes sweeping over the clean lines that had put Brant back six figures. “I assume this is you, Lucky.”
“It’s Layana.” I grabbed my purse and unclipped the seatbelt, stopping when he flipped open the ashtray and fished out a business card, the edges worn and bent. “Lana to my friends.”
“I’m not crazy about that name.”
“I’m not crazy about Lee.”
“Whatever. Call me if you ever want thirds.” He grinned at me. Revved his engine as if he was ready for me to get out.
I stared at the card. Wanted to crumple it up but didn’t. He has a business card. The fact was both ridiculous and endearing.
I got out having no idea what to do with the card. Watched as his jeep pulled off, the trailer behind it sending a cloud of parking lot dust into my face. I got into my car, my skin dirty, my pu**y taken, half of my clothes stretched out or ruined.
I pulled over three exits before home and parked in a Lowe’s lot—locked my doors, lowered my face to the steering wheel, and cried.
Chapter 24
I walked into my house, stripping as soon as I entered the bedroom, needing the shower yet not wanting to wash off his scent. I smelled like him. Like oil and grass and dirt and sex. It was out of place in my world, in my bedroom, in my life. And I knew it didn’t make sense, but I wanted more of it and loved Brant even more after that afternoon.
He’d been so different from Brant, so outside our box. I liked the different. I wanted more of it and hated myself for it. Wanted more than I could get from Brant, more sides, more than the man who held my hand and listened to my words and proposed to me in moonlight.