Summer Worthington doesn't hate her corporate job, per se. It's her god-awful boss, Mr. Griffin - or, as her roommates like to call him, Mr. Grouchy - who's the problem. He's cruel, cold-hearted, and the most attractive man she's ever seen.
As his p...
Йой! Нажаль, це зображення не відповідає нашим правилам. Щоб продовжити публікацію, будь ласка, видаліть його або завантажте інше.
MY HEELS ARE RIDICULOUSLY TALL, so our height difference isn't as noticeable tonight. Max's lack of hesitation, however, is. He withdraws his hands from his jean pockets and slides them around my waist, pulling me that tiny bit closer. The feel of his large palms flattening on my ass has every nerve inside me singing. He sighs against my lips, and I fucking feel his relief. It practically leaves his body and soaks into mine.
He gets it.
He needs this, just as badly as I do.
This new angle is everything, because his erection sits higher, prodding against my inner thigh, and I emit a little moan, grateful we're on the same page. I can feel my arousal, pooling between my thighs. The delicious scrape of denim against my sensitive flesh.
If I'm being honest with myself, this is what I've wanted since I exited the car—no, since I left Club 77.
His mouth.
His touch.
His silence.
His words.
His kisses.
Him.
He's more intoxicating than anything I've consumed tonight. I recognise this feeling instantly. It releases into my veins, all-consuming and heady. Max Griffin is like a drug, and I'm slowly becoming addicted.
As nice as it is to hear that he's missed me, my love language isn't words of affirmation. I want him to show me, preferably with his fingers and then his tongue.
I'm seriously beginning to question my sanity, because I'm seconds away from unzipping my jeans, spreading my legs, and begging him to take me, right here, against the front door.
It's like I learnt nothing last week when Zac and Jacob almost walked in on us.
Everything about this kiss feels reminiscent of that night. There's that crackle of electricity, which, if I'm being honest, feels more like a lightning strike tonight. I forget where I am, who I am. The man's kissing skills were mind-melting then, but they're off the freaking charts now. He's so wholly focused on what he's doing, on me. So, when his tongue touches mine—a slow, tantalising sweep—and he tastes faintly like peppermint toothpaste, it makes my stomach clench in the best possible way.
Then in the worst way.
Because I realise this kiss couldn't be more different to Sunday night, and a swell of anxiety rises out of nowhere, settling like a heavy brick in my oesophagus.
It's such an insignificant, small detail, but the fact that he tastes like peppermint toothpaste sucks me out of the moment. My mind fixates on it. If he's already brushed his teeth—the taste is incredibly faint—he was probably in bed, tucked up in his pyjamas, when we were messaging earlier. And now he's dressed and here, kissing me, on my veranda.
