Page 88 of Hollow

The kiss burns through me, lighting up every nerve. His tongue traces my lips, demanding entry I immediately give. One hand tangles in my hair while the other presses against my lower back, pulling me flush against him.

I kiss him back just as hard, losing myself completely. For a moment, I forget where we are, forget why we came, forget everything except how he feels against me.

When he pulls back, we’re both breathing hard.His eyes, visible through his mask, are dark with desire. “We need to go someplace more private,” he says roughly. “Now.”

Damiano guides me through the crowd, his grip firm on my wrist. The pulsing lights and writhing bodies blur around us as we push deeper into The Vault, past the main floor where we were dancing. My pulse quickens from the desire building between my legs since Damiano’s kiss.

“Where are we going?” I ask, barely audible over the thundering bass.

“I can’t wait any longer,” he answers, pulling me closer. “I need you now.”

We turn down a hallway, dimly lit with sconces that cast everyone in amber shadows. Masked figures press against the walls, hands exploring, mouths meeting hungrily. Damiano pulls me past them all, toward a door at the end.

He pushes it open to reveal a small room with plush velvet seating and a privacy curtain. As soon as the door closes behind us, muffling the music to a distant throb, he’s on me.

His mouth finds mine, hungry and demanding. There’s no hesitation, just pure need as he slides his hands under my shirt, gripping my waist. I press against him, equally desperate, tangling my fingers in his hair.

“I’ve been thinking about this all night,” he growls against my lips. “Watching you dance, feeling you against me. Driving me crazy.”

“Then do something about it,” I challenge, nipping at his bottom lip.

He doesn’t need further invitation and backs me against the wall, his thigh pushing between my legs, creating delicious friction exactly where I need it. I grind against him shamelessly, already wet and aching.

I push my hands under his shirt, feeling the ridges of muscle and ink I’ve already memorized. His skin burns against my palms as I trace the path of the nightshade tattoo curving around his ribs.

He yanks up my shirt, exposing my stomach to the cool air. His mouth leaves mine to trail down my neck, teeth scraping paths that make me gasp. When he reaches the edge of my camisole, he doesn’t hesitate—just pulls it down to expose my breast, his mouth hot and demanding on my nipple.

I arch against him, fingers digging into his shoulders. The party, everything outside this room fades away. All that matters is his mouth on my skin, his hands gripping my hips.

“I want you,” I pant, fumbling with his belt. “Please.”

He catches my wrists, pinning them above my head with one large hand. “Not yet,” he murmurs. He slides his free hand down my body to the waistband of my jeans. “First I want to feel how wet you are for me.”

The button pops open under his fingers. The zipper slides down with a sound that seems tooloud in the small space. He slips his hand inside, past the thin fabric of my underwear, finding me already slick and swollen.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “You’re soaked.”

“Your fault,” I gasp as he circles his finger around my clit with a maddening caress.

He releases my wrists to pull my jeans down further, giving his hand more room. I cling to his shoulders, legs trembling as he slides a finger inside me, then two, the heel of his palm grinding against my clit with each thrust.

The door to the room opens suddenly. I whip my head toward it, but it’s Flint who stands there, his expression darkening with lust behind his mask.

“Started without me?” he asks, closing the door behind him and leaning against it, arms crossed. He takes us in, his gaze lingering where Damiano’s hand disappears into my jeans.

“Couldn’t wait,” Damiano tells him, not taking his eyes off my face. His fingers curl inside me, making me gasp.

Flint tosses his mask aside and crosses the room in three quick strides. “Clearly.” He grabs the back of Damiano’s neck, pulling him into a rough kiss over my shoulder. “My turn.”

Damiano doesn’t stop his fingers working inside me as Flint claims my mouth next. I moan against his lips, tasting whiskey and mint. His hands replace Damiano’s on my breast, rougher, more impatient. He pinches my nipple between thumb andforefinger, sending jolts of electricity straight to my core.

“Been watching you two all night,” he says against my ear. “Wanted to drag you both out of there an hour ago.”

They work in tandem now, as if they’ve done this a thousand times. Maybe they have. Flint’s mouth on my neck, my breasts, while Damiano’s fingers drive me higher. I buck my hips against his hand, chasing release.

“Please,” I gasp, not sure what I’m asking for, just knowing I need more than fingers.

Flint pulls back just enough to look at Damiano. Something passes between them, an entire conversation in a single glance. Then Flint is moving, pushing the privacy curtain aside to reveal a low couch.

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