Page 76 of Branded
No barrier.
And her fingers slid beneath.
I caught her hand, brought it to my mouth.
She shivered when I pressed a kiss to her palm, but then she slid that palm down, her arm coming around my shoulders as she leaned in.
“You’re fucking wonderful, too.”
My dick got even harder. My hand on her hip clenched, trying to resist the urge to thrust into her. “This, little bird. This is what’s the matter. I’m two seconds away from fucking you in broad daylight in a parking lot.”
Still.
A tiny, gorgeous statue in my arms.
Then…she giggled. Her other hand coming up and wrapping around the side of my neck, her laughing eyes meeting mine. “I’m comfortable with you, baby. But maybe not quite ready for public fucking.”
I groaned, dropped my head to her shoulder.
“Killing me, little bird. Killing me.”
“I’ll stop if you tell me why you call me that.”
Laughter bubbled in my chest, and I held her closer. “Now,” I murmured, nipping at the side of her throat, “how am I going to punish you for that bit of snark?”
Twenty-Two
Kailey
“Oh fuck,” I whispered. “Oh fuck.”
Smitty had driven me to my place, promising to pick me up in the morning since my car was still at the rink.
He’d come in.
I hadn’t explicitly invited him to, but I also hadn’t thought I had to. Because there wasn’t any doubt that our night wasn’t over.
The sun was still up.
I wasn’t remotely tired.
I didn’t want him to go.
Thankfully, he seemed content to stay as well.
He’d followed me into the kitchen, and I’d offered him another beer as I’d given him the tour of my place—which took all of two minutes, since it was a tiny apartment. The Breakers paid well, I had a huge trust fund (one that I didn’t touch, because my father already had enough strings in my life that he liked to pull and manipulate), and my extra income from side projects. I could afford a bigger place, but it was just me. I didn’t need a ton of space.
The small apartment was a benefit that evening.
Because my bed was in the same room as my TV, and after we’d made the rounds, I’d asked if he’d wanted to watch a movie.
We’d started on the couch, eating out of a bag of popcorn I’d popped in the microwave.
But we hadn’t watched the movie.
Instead, about ten minutes into the car chase kicking off the action flick, Smitty had snagged the remote, turned on a certain British reality TV baking show, and he’d turned hot eyes on mine.
I’d reached him first, launching myself into his arms, plunking down onto his lap.
