Page 55 of The Beautiful Collision
She looks raw and hungry.
Not like the party girl.
Not like the ice queen.
And there’s no hint of the reputation she wears like a mask as much as I do.
Just Maya, who wants this—wants me—as much as I want her.
“Hi,” she murmurs, her lips barely moving. “Your friends are watching.”
I glance over her shoulder and sure enough, half the hockey team is staring at us with expressions ranging from impressed to jealous to disbelieving. Rook actually has his mouth hanging open, unable to believe what he’s seeing.
“Let them,” I say, and pull her closer.
We dance through two more songs, though dancing is a generous term for what we’re doing. It’s more like vertical foreplay, a promise of what’s to come. Her hands are in my hair, tugging just hard enough to hurt. My hands map every inch of her I can reach without getting us arrested.
At one point, she hooks her leg around my hip, and I nearly come in my jeans like a fucking teenager.
When we decide to head somewhere we can actually have sex, I’m surprised when the others follow like I’m the fucking Pied Piper or something. They’re clearly still planning to kick on, and expecting us to lead them to the next stop on the night out, but it’s clear Maya has other plans.
“Same car?” Mike asks, already pulling up the Uber app.
“Nah,” Maya says. “We’ll grab our own.”
There’s a knowing look exchanged between our friends, a few snickers and catcalls, but then they’re piling into their rides to head to the next stop, and we’re alone on the sidewalk. The sudden quiet after the chaos of the club is disorienting, like stepping out of a movie theater into daylight.
“That was…” I start, but I don’t know how to finish. Fucking incredible? Completely insane? The hottest thing I’ve ever done?
“The Uber’s two minutes out,” she says, looking at her phone. But I catch the way her hands shake slightly, the flush that extends from her cheeks to her chest.
Two minutes.
Fuck.
If I was playing for time, we’re headed in the opposite direction, because now I’ve got Maya gagging for me and the bet looms large over all of this. I can’t walk away—from the betorfrom Maya—and I don’t think I can come clean to her. I know I need to figure out a way out, but fuck knows what it is.
And each moment I let tick by is like a time bomb, because eventually, she’s going to tell me she has feelings, and then what the fuck do I do?
Before I can answer the question—like thereisan answer—the Uber pulls up and we slide into the backseat. The driver mutters something about the address, and Maya confirms it, and then we’re moving, the city lights blurring past the windows.
“Maine,” Maya says, and that’s all it takes.
I crash into her like a wave hitting shore, all thoughts of restraint—of playing for time until an answer appears—evaporating instantly. My mouth finds hers, hungry and demanding, and her hands are everywhere, in my hair, under my shirt, fumbling with my belt buckle like it’s personally offended her.
“Fuck,” I groan against her mouth when her hand finally finds its way inside my jeans. “Maya, Jesus?—“
“Shut up,” she pants, and bites my lower lip hard enough to sting, laughing when I yelp in pain.
My hand is back under her dress immediately, no pretense this time, no careful testing of her boundaries. She’s still soaked, possibly even wetter than before, and when I thrust two fingers inside her, she arches against me with a muffled cry.
The driver either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care—God bless late-night Uber drivers and their eyes-front indifference. We’re free to basically maul each other in the backseat as long as we don’t vomit or make a mess, though that’s not a guarantee, since she’s got my cock in her hand.
“Is this a good time to admit your lasagna is pretty good?” I laugh.
She squeezes me tighter, and I have to bury my face in her neck to muffle a groan. But I keep up my end of the bargain as well, because I’ve found the spot that makes her whole body light up, curling my fingers until she’s grinding against my hand like she’s trying to chase her orgasm right here in the backseat.
Her dress is hiked up around her waist now, and I can see everything in the intermittent streetlights—the way she takes my fingers, the way her thighs tremble, the absolutely ruined state of her panties—and it’s the hottest damn thing I’ve ever seen.
