Page 34 of The Woman with the Target on her Back (Grassi Family)

I could have resisted if he was all soft and unsure.

As it was, though, desire pulsed through me, igniting my blood, making a fire burn through me as my hands rose, grabbing the back of his neck, holding him close as his tongue moved inside, teasing, claiming.

It retreated before I was done, though, dragging a grumble out of me as mine moved into his mouth. But then his lips closed around it, sucking slightly, making a jolt of desire shoot straight to my core.

The moan that escaped me was loud and primal, echoing back through the open space.

August’s answering rumbling sound met my ears as his free hand went down, sinking into my ass for a second before moving down my thigh, hiking it up to the side of his hip, so he could press into me, crushing me to the wall as his hard cock rubbed against me.

Hooking my leg around his lower back, I shifted slightly so his cock was against my pussy, dragging another moan out of me at the friction, at a hint of what I wanted most.

Taking the cue, August ground against me as his lips deepened the kiss, as his hand snuck up under my shirt, teasing over the skin of my belly, then tracing the underside of my bra before his hand closed around one of my breasts, squeezing.

His lips muted the sound of my moan as I suddenly grabbed his hand, pulling it out of my shirt, and pressing it under the waistband of my pants.

There was no hesitation as his hand slipped into my panties, stroking up my cleft.

“Fucking drenched for me,” he murmured against my lips before his thumb was tracing over my clit, making that fire burn hotter as I rocked against his touch.

My own hand moved between us as well, cupping his cock through his pants, thinking of it inside of me as his fingers slid into me, stroking, driving me up.

My lips ripped from his as the whimpers escaped me.

“Don’t stop,” I begged, hips rocking against his touch as his thumb circled and his fingers thrust.

“Not until you’re fucking screaming my name,” he agreed.

But then, right fucking then, there was the sound of the stairwell door somewhere above us slamming closed.

Moving on instinct, my hands slammed into his shoulders, pushing him back as my cheeks flamed at the idea of getting caught with someone’s hands down my pants in a stairwell.

August didn’t object, just pulled his hands out of my pants, and watched me with heart-stuttering eye contact as he slipped his fingers into his mouth, tasting me.

Steps were getting closer as they descended, and I seemed to snap out of it long enough to push past him, and start to rush down the steps myself, not pausing even as my heart started to pound and a fine bead of perspiration met my hairline.

I had to get some distance.

Because some part of me wanted to rush back up to him, grab him by that tie of his, drag him back upstairs, and demand he fuck me up against every surface of that fancy-ass hotel room.

And that, yeah, that would be a terrible idea.

The problem was, I was sometimes drawn to those.

The cool air of the lobby seemed to snap some sense back into my overheated system as I waited for August to appear at my side.

“You’re gonna have to point me in the direction of the grocery store,” he said, tone calm as can be. Like he couldn’t still taste me on his tongue, like I couldn’t still feel his fingers inside of me.

“Right,” I agreed, following him outside where we waited for his car to be brought around, then climbed inside in what could only be described as awkward silence. Uncomfortable enough for me to reach for the dial on the radio, turning it up until some classic seventies music filled the car as I gave him the occasional directions to the grocery store.

Glad for the distraction, I grabbed a cart, and started filling it with the shit I knew the halfway house was always in need of. Paper products, cleaning supplies, shampoo, conditioner, soap, and deodorant.

“We’ll need to stop here again before the soup kitchen,” I said, the first words that weren’t directions either of us spoke since the lobby.

“Looks like it,” he agreed as he brushed me out of the way, so he could load up the belt, then paid for the supplies himself.

Maybe I should have objected.

But he was donating it to a charity.

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