Page 116 of Catcher's Lock
“Jesus, you guys,” Echo says, barking a laugh. “That’s it. I’m out. I’m gonna go have phone sex with my fiancé now.”
“TMI, shithead,” Josha replies, then knocks his forehead gently against mine. “Can I get down now?”
“Sure, but he’s gonna notice that boner as soon as it’s not digging into my abs.”
He groans but releases my ribs to let himself down. With an uncharacteristic display of tact, Echo pretends not to notice when Josha quickly adjusts himself before turning around to say goodnight.
I offer my goodbyes from the catcher’s lock and make no apologies for the bulge straining between the rope wrapped over my hips.
“You had fun tonight,” Josha observes, perched on the chair with his elbows on his knees while he watches me finish tying back the rope.
“Mm-hmm. Are you surprised because I got along with Echo or because I did it sober?”
“I’mhappy. I like seeing you enjoy yourself. Does it have to be more complicated than that?”
“Not if it’s not.” I walk over, unbuttoning my shirt with slow, deliberate flicks of my fingers. “And I like seeing you happy.”
He leans back, and I throw a leg over to straddle his lap. Hishands come up to skim my abs and trace along my sides.
“How’s the rib after all that fancy flying?”
“Not sore enough to make me regret it.” I slide my arms around his neck, then thread my fingers into the short hair at the base of his skull and tug. “Not sore enough to stop me from wanting another kind of workout.”
His head tips back, and a low hum rumbles in his throat as his thumbs find my nipples. Goosebumps erupt and ripple down my spine.
“Whaddya think, Rocket?” I roll my hips in a leisurely grind so he can feel my growing erection. “You drunk enough to let me take advantage of you tonight?”
His hands go still. “I had two beers. Hours ago.”
Fuck.Why do I keep making stupid junkie jokes?
“Don’t listen to me.” I shake my head. “I don’t know why I say shit like that.”
His gaze softens, and his thumbs resume their slow circles.
“You’re still figuring things out,” he says. “We both are. There’s no rule that says you have to be serious all the time just because you’re getting sober. I shouldn’t be so fucking sensitive.”
“You have good reason to be. I don’t want to ignore that.”
“And I don’t want to let it ruin the mood. Can we go back to the lap dance?”
My fingers tremble as I bring them around to trace his jaw. “Why do you put up with me?” I whisper.
“Stop it.” Catching my wrist, he flicks his tongue against my palm before bringing it to his chest. “We’re done with that shit, remember? You wereflirting. You didn’t do anything wrong. You did everything right tonight, in fact, and youdeserveanything you want.”
Why, I want to beg.What do you see when you look at me thatno one else does?How can I preserve those pieces—coat myself in them like amber so they never crack or fade?
But his mouth is sucking at my throat, and his other hand is down the back of my jeans, fingers dipping into my crack to spread me open. My insecurities scatter. He’s not looking for questions right now, and anyway, the answers are written in the scrape of teeth over stubble and the insistent length of his cock against my own and the low vibration rumbling in his chest.
They’re written in the covenant of his hands in mine, locked together in the air above the stage.
Whatever he sees is already part of me, and it’s enough.
“Anything I want?” A slow grin spreads across my face as the ache in my heart explodes into fireflies. “Does that mean you’re finally gonna let me tap that ass?”
“Don’t give me that ‘finally’ crap,” he murmurs, nipping at the juncture where my shoulder meets my neck. “I offered it up weeks ago. You’re the one who keeps climbing my cock whenever we have more than five minutes alone.”
That’s…totally fair.
