Page 13 of Cherry Beats

“And you’re kissing the wrong girl if you want an easy ride.”

“Drop the mask.”

“Not a chance. You have to work to see me completely naked. I’m no Anna, Blossom, or—”

He pushed his hips against mine until there wasn’t a single inch between us, cutting me off completely, and I felt his fingers pulsate and twitch against me.

Touch. It was the single most seductive sense out of them all. You could be deaf or blind and still fall in love from a well-placed caress.

“Then put me to work. I want to see you naked,” he breathed.

“Sure,” I sighed, not making him work for it at all.

In one swift move, he’d grabbed my arse cheeks, picked me up and wrapped my legs around his waist. He held me high as he walked me backwards until it was my turn to look down on him, my arms wrapped possessively around his neck. He was even more perfect from up here, staring up at me with wide eyes, his wavy hair falling away from his face. I wanted to run my fingertips through the perfectly sculptured stubble on his jaw. I wanted to lick his cheek. I wanted to steal his lips to take home with me and keep them forever. I wanted all of him, and I wanted to remember this feeling for the rest of my life.

Presley dropped me on the bar with a thud, keeping his hands under my arse and letting his fingers make waves against the leather pants he seemed infatuated with. He remained standing between my parted legs. Without him kissing me, and nothing but the music wrapping itself around us, I began to feel like I was in some Brat Pack movie from the 80s, andthiswas finally my happy ending.

“You’re here,” I whispered.

“Mmhmm,” he moaned, moving his hands to glide up my thighs.

“I thought you took the other girl home. You always take the other girl home.”

Presley watched his hands sliding up and down my legs, his knees bending and his body rising and falling as he felt all of me before his fingertips found their way under the edge of my very loose T-shirt.

“Not always,” he said softly. “And I never take themhome.”

I tilted his chin up with a single finger. “What are you doing here, Presley?”

“Acting on impulse.”

“For what?”

“You.”

“Me?”

Presley pursed his lips, watching as his fingers disappeared under my top and began to stroke tenderly across my ribs. I had no idea my ribs were a g-spot for me, but he did, and when my skin peppered beneath his fingertips, Presley looked up at me through hooded eyes and smirked, just as Whitesnake’sIs This Love?poured out of the speakers.

“The dick wants what it wants. Right now, it has a fetish for leather, cherry red hair, and eyes that sparkle with mischief.”

“Spoken like a man who writes music in his spare time.”

“I’m no Whitesnake.” He grinned widely.

“Nobody is Whitesnake.”

“Except Bon Jovi.

“Except BonfuckingJovi.” I giggled, smiling brightly. Giggled. Me. Shit. I felt bad for calling Gertrude all those bimbo names now, but Presley was a force of nature, a silent hurricane who stormed into my bar when it was closed and let the gusts of wind swirl around me.

“Before we do this, I have something I should tell you, Cherry.”

“Let me guess. You’re really a woman, which explains your amazing hair and sharp cheekbones?” I arched a brow, aiming for comedy and, thankfully, getting a small huff of approval from him.

He shook his head, and his hands went around to the back of my bra. With one simple click of his fingers, it came undone and set me free.

“I’m going to try not to focus on the fact that you must have had alotof practice with women to be able to do that.”

---