Page 49 of Your Rhythm
12You Might Be || Autograf
KAY
He’s everywhere,his hands fisting my hair, knee pressing between my thighs. He practically shoves me up against the fridge and tugs my head back, attacking my mouth as his chest pins me in place. Any worries about us being recognized in the bar faded as soon as his lips met mine. I can hardly think anymore, but my body takes over for me. My finger hooks around his belt loop and draws him closer, until there’s nothing between us but fabric and heat.
He’s a demanding kisser, working my mouth at a pace that forces me to keep up. I let myself get caught up in his rhythm, feeling a pulsing between my legs every time his tongue sweeps across my lips. When he sucks the bottom one between his teeth, I can’t help but cry out, pulling away to give myself a moment to breathe.
“Damn it, Pearson.” My voice is shaky, exhilarated, like I’ve just run a mile. “You’re good at this.”
His grip on my hair tightens. “Just ‘good?’”
The prickles of pain starting on my scalp should be telling me to take things down a notch, but instead they just make me want to see what will happen if I keep urging him on.
“You set the bar pretty high on that roof,” I tease, thrilled by the look of warning he gives me for my tone. “I didn’t know if you’d make the same impression without a dramatic backdrop and a soundtrack.”
He lets one hand drop from my hair to the base of my throat, and without any warning he leans hard into the leg that’s pressed between both of mine, his thigh grinding against the part of me that’s been aching for him all night. Even through our layers of clothing, the pressure is enough to draw a gasp from me.
“I thinkyou’regoing to provide the soundtrack tonight.” He leans close enough to hover his lips just above mine. I clamp my thighs around him as he keeps grinding into me, fingers stretching to softly circle my neck. “Go on, Kay. Moan for me.”
My eyelids feel heavy, muddled thoughts refusing to turn themselves into words for my tongue to wrap itself around. Every instinct I have is telling me to give into him now, to drop any illusion of control, but I’m not quite ready to let him take over yet.
I somehow manage to raise an eyebrow and ask, “Who put you in charge?”
He laughs, a different one than any I’ve heard from him before. This one is dark, threatening, crackling with the static of danger. As I stare up into his narrowed eyes, a shiver runs through me. I hold my breath as he drags the pad of one thumb down my cheek, and then suddenly I’m being flipped over against the fridge as he pins both my arms above my head with one hand.
“Iput me in charge,” he growls, just inches from my ear. “I have a habit of setting the pace.”
My body trembles, but I keep the shake out of my voice. “So do I.”
That laugh again. Everything in me tenses at the sound.
“I guess we’re in for a little competition tonight, then.”
His free hand brushes up my leg, skims over my ass, and then slides underneath my jacket. He brushes my shirt aside, and I feel it for the first time: his touch on the bare skin of my waist. It’s just a whisper, a shadow of what we both need, but in that single point of contact, I feel fire and ice and the surging swell of heartbeats hurling themselves towards the edge.
“Fuck, Matt. How the fuck do you do that?”
He doesn’t answer, just slides his hand up farther until he meets the band of my bra. I suck in a breath.
I’ve been picturing his hands on every inch of me nonstop since that night on the roof, twitching like an addict for a drug I’ve never even tried. His fingertips are needle points teasing my desperate veins. I can’t hold back anymore, can’t keep clutching the rules and repercussions to my chest, hoping they’ll protect me from giving in. I already have.
My skin screams out every time he touches me, begging for more and praying that he’ll stop, like he’s both the burn and the balm that soothes it. Under his influence, I’m reduced to the deep urges of my instincts, to the emotions rolling through me with more power and certainty than he should be able to demand from me so soon.
I trust him.
I fear him.
I need him.
“Come here.”
He flips me around again and pulls me over to one of the kitchen tables, lifting me up with an effortless flex of his arms and setting me down on its edge. He steps between my legs and I wrap them around him as he slides my jacket off my shoulders.
My lips find his neck. He groans as I bite and lick and suck my way down it. I flex my hips against him and he pulls me closer, the pressure between my legs building when I feel his hardness against me.
The noise and lights of the bar spill into the room as the doors swing open, and I whip my head towards them so fast I almost hurt my neck. I feel Matt tense up in surprise as two male servers step into the kitchen, laughing and whispering in French as one of them pulls out a flask.
They haven’t spotted us yet. We stay frozen in place as they pass the container back and forth a few times. I turn my head back to Matt and we blink at each other, deciding to wait things out. It only takes another moment before one of the servers spots us, eyes going wide as he taps his friend on the arm.
