Josie Guerrero is focused on one thing: getting accepted into the prestigious art studies program within the Art School at the University of Southern Washington. With thirteen weeks to create her sophomore portfolio, she knows she can't afford any d...
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I'm drunk on his beer-tinted lips.
Or maybe it's the way his calloused fingers feel gripping my thighs or the way his warm tongue sends a shiver down my spine as he drags it up my neck; or maybe, it's the way his hips are grinding into me slowly, teasingly, pulling a gasp from my lips when the thick material of his gray joggers rubs against the barely-there yellow lace of my underwear. It sends a shock wave of pleasure through my body every time he does it, and the soft moan that slips out when he does it again, slower, more intentional, as if he's reveling in the fact that I'm so close to coming undone right here, just from this, is loud enough to just barely echo through his quiet room.
The cocky smirk on his lips when he looks down at me warms my cheeks, but it's the way his eyes darken when they flick down to my bare chest that really sets fire to my skin.
I've been in Micah's bedroom for ten minutes, and he's already got me out of my dress. To be fair, he had me out of my dress within the first two minutes; the last eight have been spent with his calloused hands and beer-tinged tongue exploring my body — along my neck, across my collarbone, down my chest, until his hands were gripping my hips while his tongue slipped from one sensitive nipple to the other. I bit down on my lip, trying not to let the moans slip away from me, but when he took the perked bud between his teeth and tugged gently before rolling his tongue against it, I couldn't hold it in anymore.
The problem is I'm not supposed to be nearly naked in Micah's bed right now; I'm supposed to be starting my podcast with Luke.
I dropped my backpack onto the couch as soon as I got here, and when he sprawled out his long legs on the other side of the couch and pulled out his notebook, I made up a lame excuse about needing to grab a pen as I made a very conspicuous escape into the hall toward his best friend's bedroom. Two soft knocks later, I was smiling up at a shirtless man with sleepy eyes and bedhead. I could tell he'd just woken up from a nap, but when I slipped into his room and closed the door behind me, all traces of sleep were gone as he backed me up against the wall and connected our lips.
"You smell so fucking good. You always smell so fucking good." His voice is low and rough now, and the sound sends another wave of heat across my skin as his lips trail back up my chest until they're pressed softly against my throat.
My breathing hitches, and the heat burning between my legs flares as he grinds against me again. I need more. I need him to touch me. I need him to bring me the kind of release he gave me a few days ago in the creek. When his fingers trail down my stomach, feather-light, before looping through the band of my underwear, he pulls back slightly, eyes clearing as he looks down at me, asking for permission. The warm, barely-there light from the lamp on his nightstand is casting him in the most beautiful golden hue, a mesmerizing contrast to the black ink artwork pressed so skillfully into his skin. My wandering eyes follow the ink down his arms to his ink-coated knuckles, and my skin flares when his calloused finger brushes softly against my hip, just under the band of my lace underwear.
