Page 37 of Shot Taker

“You with another guy isn’t nothing.” His teeth grind together as he leans over me. “Miles. Whoever took you out the other night. They’re not good enough for you.”

“And you are?”

He grabs my chin and kisses me hard.

His lips are hot and firm, his body bending mine around the metal post between my shoulders. I want to tell him to back off, but the scorching heat of his mouth, the grip of his fingers, sends electricity through me that I haven’t felt in weeks.

It’s wrong, but it’s so good, and I kiss him back.

My hands fist the sweater at his waist, the hard muscles bunching beneath my touch.

What Miles leaned over to tell me was that his good game was thanks to Clay.

Everything comes back to him.

He takes the move as consent and leans in.

The last weeks without him piled up like a crushing weight, and now that he’s so close, all I want is to lose myself in his grumpy embrace.

When he wedges his knee between my parted thighs, I move against him. My back arches, and my hips undulate of their own accord, pressing against his leg.

He licks between my lips and grabs the waistband of my jeans. The zipper gives way as he yanks it down.

Clay shoves the fabric off my hips and down my legs, dragging my thong with it. Then a hand is between my thighs.

“Miles plays backup for me, sweetheart.” His voice is a rasp as his lips drag across my cheek, his teeth nipping at my ear. “I know you didn’t get this wet for him.”

But I can’t be embarrassed when he plunges two fingers inside me, hard and deep. The touch ignites me, and I try and fail to swallow a moan.

His fingers thrust, proving his point.

I need to feel his skin without all these clothes.

My hands sneak up under his sweater. His skin is hot and smooth, satin over ridges of hard-won muscle.

He groans. “Say you came back for me. For us.”

My heart kicks.

None of it makes sense. He’s the one who broke things off.

But it’s impossible to think when he’s pumping in and out, long strokes that push me to the limit. My body welcomes him as though he never left, as though every day was a tick mark on a cell wall while I waited for him to return and set me free.

He rubs the sweet spot inside that makes me convulse.

“Wait,” I say.

Clay pulls back an inch, our breath still mingling in pants.

“You told me the next time you made me come, it wouldn’t be on your fingers.”

His eyes gleam.

He spins me around and bends me over, forcing me to grab the post for balance as he spreads me wide.

His lips brush down my back, my thighs.

Oh God.

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