His vision blurred as he held out his hand to her. She got up on her own, however, which indicated he’d hallucinated some brains along with all that firm, ripe beauty. Most likely, he would have stumbled and brought both of them down on the hard wood floor. She stood, her hair falling in a riot of waves and curls around her shoulders—a fucking glorious display. The tendrils reached her waist. He stretched his hand farther, longing to touch the burnished strands.
“Come on,” she said, grabbing his hand firmly in her own instead. “I’m taking you to bed.”
“Now you’re talking,” he agreed with drunken earnestness. He staggered after her down the hallway to his bedroom, his eyes glued to the beguiling curve that led from her waist to her hip. He couldn’t wait to peel those jeans off and expose the rest of that golden apricot-hued, juicy flesh.
In his drunken state, fantasy and reality melded. One second, he’d been in the hallway leching over his angel’s ass, and the next, he was in the bedroom pulling her back in his arms and nibbling at her neck, the fragrance of her hair and skin deepening his intoxication. He bent and pressed her ass against his erection. She squirmed.
“Rill Pierce, behave.”
Instead of stopping, his mouth grew hungrier on her neck. He felt the vibrations of her soft, helpless moan against his lips.
“You don’t want me to behave,” he growled against her ear before he pressed his mouth to her neck. She shivered in his arms. He could feel her pulse, throbbing quick and strong beneath his lips. “Your heart is racing.”
“That’s because I’m trying to throw a six-foot-three drunk Irishman off me,” she said acerbically. But he heard the tremor in her voice; he knew what it meant. And, no—it wasn’t drunken wishful thinking, either. She’d slowed her wriggling in his embrace. She molded against him like she couldn’t stop herself from feeling his shape.
He opened his hand at her lower belly, his third and fourth fingers spreading down to her mons. He liked how much of her compact body he could encompass with his hand. His actions didn’t strike him as forward or inappropriate, only right and natural—soft woman against hard man. He pulled her closer, holding her hips captive.
She went completely still in his arms.
“I may be drunk, but I’m not an idiot. Don’t tell me you don’t feel that,” he said gruffly, referring to the palpable heat that emanated from both of their groins, daring her to deny the obvious. His voice had gone hoarse with acute desire. Someth
ing about her scent and the feeling of her satiny, warm skin beneath his hand was turning him into a horny satyr. Sure, her body was a fine piece of equipment, but he’d thrived in a profession where breathtaking women abounded. It wasn’t her soft skin and lush curves that were making him crazy.
Or at least it wasn’t just that.
“I don’t think . . .”
“Stop thinking. Just feel,” he entreated in a whisper next to her ear. “That’s what I’m doing, and I haven’t let myself feel much of anything for two years now. Have pity, beautiful.”
If he didn’t feel her wet, sleek flesh surrounding his cock very soon, he suddenly doubted for his sanity. Not that doubting his sanity wasn’t a daily occurrence these days, but on this occasion, the possibility of losing his mind felt frighteningly close.
He placed one hand on her chin and pushed it gently, urging her to twist her face toward him. He plucked at her lips. Even though she didn’t kiss him back immediately, she didn’t turn away, either. He closed his eyes and nibbled at her. It was like trying to coax a flower to open for him. Rill loved the art of kissing—at least, he did when he wasn’t shit-faced with his cock ready to burst.
He reined in his lust, willing her to respond as he shaped their mouths together tenderly, and then with increasing fervor as the sensation of her pervaded his awareness. His brain may be taking a bath in alcohol, but he recognized her premium flavor nonetheless.
Something swooped up from his chest to his neck until it tightened like a clawed hand on his throat. It took him a second to recognize the sensation as blinding need.
“Open up, baby,” he growled. “I’ve waited for this for so damn long.”
When her lips parted, he swept down on her, drinking her nectar thirstily, letting her taste course through his blood and flesh, allowing it to drown out his memories by a means exponentially more effective than whiskey.
She made a sound in her throat that he couldn’t completely identify when he began to unfasten her jeans with fingers that had grown fleet from an onrush of distilled lust. Had it been surprise he’d heard in her tone? Arousal?
Or uncertainty?
He didn’t know, and he didn’t care.
He groaned gutturally as he kissed her—well, ravaged her mouth, in truth—while he shoved down her jeans and one hand rose to caress the smooth skin of her hip and ass. Lust raged in him at the evidence of all that sweet female flesh.
It’d been so long.
The way he felt, he might have been a sixteen-year-old boy first dribbling jeans off the girl of his wet dreams, not a thirty-six-year-old man who had known his share of fame and accolades, the touch and desire of many women, the love of a wife whom he’d failed, in the end . . .
. . . the black void of loss and self-doubt.
Rill was too familiar with all those things.
The flickering thought galvanized him. He shoved her panties down next to her clinging jeans, and then regretfully interrupted their kiss. She wasn’t so hesitant in her response now; she’d been kissing him back with a fervor and heat that nearly equaled his own, tangling her tongue with his, twisting her face farther over her shoulder to get a better angle on his penetration. He ducked his knees and dragged her jeans and panties down to her shins.