An expression of introspection crossed his face just before he asked, “How much of the other night do you remember?”
“You mean the night when we…were together?”
“Yeah, Pink,” he took a step closer and lowered his voice, “in your apartment. The night I made you scream.”
Shit. That comment alone sent a shot of electricity through me. This would be the easiest dare ever…for him.
“All of it,” I gulped. It was true. I’ve replayed that night in my mind a million times already, my desire for him growing stronger with each provocative flashback.
“Yeah,” he agreed, all traces of mischief gone and replaced by an intoxicating fascination. “Me too. Tell me, though, what do you remember the most?” He took another step closer. So close that I could feel his minty breath on my lips. “Was it the beginning, when you undressed in front of me? Because I can tell you with one hundred percent certainty…that almost killed me…before we even got started.”
“I’m glad you liked it,” I whispered, exhilarated by his confession.
He thought for a moment, allowing the memories to come back, before his gaze returned to me, and with it came a charge in the air, full of the same insatiable energy from that night. “Or was it the first time my chest pressed against yours, skin on skin, because I’m telling you, Chloe, the combination of your soft skin and hard nipples against me?” He breathed in a hiss through his teeth, “Fuck. I almost lost it right then and there.”
Fuck is right. Dear God, I didn’t realize how good he’d be at this dare.
His chest began to rise and fall, his eyes charged with resolve…passion…lust. His words, the memories, mixed with the raw, unfulfilled desires between us tonight, were affecting him just as much as they were me.
He stood behind me and brought his lips to my ear, careful not to touch, his voice deepening to a rough, deliberate rumble, “Maybe it was the first time my fingers touched the most intimate part of you. Because I’d be lying if I said the slick, wet warmth of that part of your body didn’t drive me absolutely fucking mad.”
I nodded as he circled to the front of me, scrutinizing my reaction to his words.
“Yeah,” I said, my voice barely audible. I cleared my throat. “That was incredible.”
“But that’s not it, is it? That’s not what you remember most.”
I shook my head no.
“Hmm,” he contemplated. “Maybe it was the first time you came.” His voice now a raspy hum, “I can’t get the picture of you on that bed with my fist in your hair and your ass in the air out of my mind. God, I was so fucking deep into you. And when you clenched all around me that first time,” he moaned, “it felt so damn good, I honestly thought that would be the end of it.”
My eyes impulsively closed at the thought, waves of heat flowing through me. When I opened them, he was staring at me, looking the same way I felt. Entirely captivated. Hopelessly seduced.
“But it wasn’t,” I found my voice. “You lasted for hours.”
“I had to.”
“What do you mean?”
“I didn’t want you to forget,” he reached for me, about to take my cheek in his hand before he remembered the dare included no touching. He huffed out a humorless laugh and dropped his hand to his side. “Just like tonight. I’m taking it slow to savor it. To savor you. So that you’ll want more. I want you to want more of me, Chloe. Because I knew before I even fucked you that night that I would want more of you.”
“Oh,” I said, taken aback. That alone may have been the single hottest thing he said all night.
“Tell me your most memorable moment from that night.”
“Everything. All of it, together.”
“I see. Well, Chloe McCarthy, let me tell you what I remember most about that night.”
“Okay,” I whispered in anticipation.
“I agree with you. Everything about that night was fucking phenomenal. But the morning is what I’ll never forget. When I woke up next to you—that was the most memorable moment.”
“Are you kidding me?” my brows pulled together in disappointment. Wasn’t the sex as good for him as it was for me?
“Nope, not kidding at all. But you’ll have to wait until tomorrow to find out why. Right now, let me ask you this… How badly do you want me to touch you?”
I couldn’t stop my smile, “So bad. Mission accomplished on that dare, soldier.”
“Good.” His eyes gleamed. “Now it’s time for your next dare.”
Another stupid dare? My face squished up in defeat. “Matt, can’t we—”
Before I could say another word, he cupped my cheeks and drew me toward him, crashing his lips vigorously against mine, the contact sending a rush through me. As our lips parted, my hands grasped his shirt, stretching the fabric as I fiercely pulled him in, our bodies impatiently coming together. The kiss quickly escalated, our thirst for each other intensifying with every passing second.
“Come home with me,” he moaned, kissing and nipping his way up my neck. “Spend the night. Let me touch you the way you deserve to be touched.” With hesitancy, he withdrew his lips and intensely gazed into my eyes instead, provoking a whole new level of desire to take over my body and mind. It was a kind of desire that compelled me to want all of him, not just the physical, though that was a damn huge part of it.
“This place is alright,” he continued, breathing heavily, with a vigilant restraint in his eyes. “But we’ll need a bed for the things I want to do with you tonight. I promise, no more dares after this.”
“Yes,” I said immediately, wondering why he thought he needed to dare me to go home with him when I wanted nothing more than to do just that. I threw myself back into him, arms embracing, mouths interlocking, as I breathed in his captivating scent. “Yes,” I repeated. “Take me home.”
Chapter Eight
~Chloe~
Present (Christmas Night)
Our hands remained linked together, our fingers interlaced, as he drove his truck through the snow-covered roads to his home. The stinging winter air had sobered us to some degree, our impassioned urgency dying down ever so slightly since we left the club. Yet a quiet appreciation for each other had taken us over as we anticipated the night ahead.
The roads remained lifeless, quiet, and dark except for the streetlights, and headlights of Matt’s truck. The snow had stopped falling, but the plows hadn’t come through yet, leaving the streets deeply covered in a white powdery blanket. The heater vents blew, full blast, and had finally warmed the cab of the truck enough that my body had begun to defrost, and I no longer shivered.
As Matt turned the vents down a notch, a country ballad emerged from the speakers—a song that spoke of desire, need, love—and all I could think of was how much the song related to me—to us—and how perfect this moment actually was. I turned to Matt, intrigued not only by his masculine allure, but also by the way he made me feel:
Important.
Respected.
Worthy.
All qualities I thought I had lost forever.
With my eyes on him, I brought his fingers to my mouth and subtly kissed each one. He removed his attention from the road and briefly glanced at me, a sly smile forming at the corners of his mouth before he returned his focus to the road.
We pulled into a residential neighborhood and Matt withdrew his hand from mine, placing it on the steering wheel to make a ninety degree turn.
“A house?” I said, shocked, as we pulled up the driveway to a humble bungalow. “You live in a house?”
“It’s not that big of a deal, Pink,” he said as he parked his truck in the detached, one-car garage. “Lots of people live in houses.”
“Not many people our age,” I said, wondering why I felt the need to make small talk when all I wanted to do was touch him, and let him do whatever it is he wanted to do with me. “Do you rent it?”
“No.”
“You own it? You pay a mortgage on it? Wait. How old are you, anyway?”
<
br /> He laughed, “Twenty-three.”
“Ah. I see now. How long have you lived here, old man?” I asked, inwardly cringing at my horrid success of thoroughly ruining the moment. My stupid nerves had clearly taken over.
He ignored the old-man comment. Maybe because he was only two years older than me.
“I got the place right after I was officially discharged from the military,” he said. “Been here about a year. Figured it would be a good investment.”
“Discharged? That sounds harsh. What did you do to get discharged?”
“Nothing,” he said, confused by the question. “My term of service expired, and I decided not to re-enlist.”
We stepped out of the truck and walked through the snow, entering the house through the side door. Straight ahead, looking down the basement stairs, I could faintly see part of a weight bench in the darkness.
We took our shoes off, and I followed Matt to the right. He flicked on a light before we entered a small eat-in kitchen, then hung his coat on a chair. I removed mine and did the same.
“For a guy’s place, it sure is clean in here,” I thought out loud as I looked around. The countertops were empty. No dishes in the sink. No spots on the stove or the floor. No dust in the corners. Looked like Matt Langston hadn’t lost any of the self-discipline he’d, no-doubt, learned from his days in the service.
“It’s habit,” he replied, leaning back against the countertop, his hands resting behind him. I leaned back against a chair on the opposite side of the room, mirroring his move, wondering who would initiate what we came here to do. I hoped I hadn’t obliterated our chances with my awkward small-talk.
The truth was, his “reminders” from the club still weighed heavily on my mind. I could still feel his lips. I still tasted his skin. I still yearned for his touch. Ached for his embrace. I hungrily craved the merger of our bodies.
He wanted me, too. I could see it in the way his eyes darkened. The way his chest heaved. The way he clenched his jaw in restraint.
Yet, we remained still, absorbing the moment and each other in this quiet calm before the storm. Only, it wasn’t really that calm. Not for me anyway. The longer we stared at each other, the more intense the pull to him became until it developed to a point where my heart raced in deafening thumps throughout the silent air in the room.
“So, how’s this gonna go?” I blurted impatiently. “Do you start? Or do I?”
His eyes gleamed, a slow smile forming from his lips, “It starts itself, Pink. Patience.”
Then it occurred to me that he was denying me on purpose. By allowing the charge between us to slowly build stronger, it would eventually come to a point where no matter how hard we tried, we would no longer be able to resist each other. Not even a little bit.
My nerves calmed as I studied him the same way he studied me. He had an intense hunger in his eyes. One that equally matched mine. Seeing him look at me that way, his body leaning back in that damn black t-shirt that fit him just the right way, his eyes exploring every part of me—admiring, craving, plotting—sent a shiver through my warm veins. Knowing that he wanted me only made me want him more.
“You want a drink?” he asked, watching me, not moving an inch.
“Maybe just some water.”
He nodded, and as he casually pushed himself off the counter and reached for a glass in the cupboard, I became entirely oblivious to anything other than the immaculate contour of his sculpted body and the tattoos on his arms, and I wondered if any of those tattoos had special meaning.
“What do your tattoos mean?” I said to fill the quiet before realizing how utterly groupie-ish that sounded. This damn anticipation was turning me into a babbling idiot. Tattoos on a guy had never been some kind of rebel-loving aphrodisiac to me like they were to other girls I rolled with. A tattoo does not a rebel make. A tattoo just makes a person with ink on their skin. Besides, I’ve never been picky…about rebels or inked-up guys or anyone else. I liked them all.
Why was I suddenly obsessing about tattoos?
Oh yeah. They were on him.
“Which one?” he cocked a brow at me.
I pointed to the first one that caught my eye, “That one.”
He pressed his lips together, trying to hold back a smile. “It’s a star, Pink. No special meaning.”
I bit my cheek in frustration and decided to stop talking. It seemed that no matter how much I tried to remain in control, around him, it was impossible.
God, I wanted him. Wanted that solid body pressed firmly against mine. Instead of granting that wish, however, he took the glass to the sink, his back facing me as he filled it with tap water.
Water. Had I just asked him for water? Not whisky or even wine? This was not my typical MO. My normal method of operation was to get drunk. Screw. Then move on. All while being in complete and total control of the situation. Getting drunk and being in control may seem like a contradiction, but I never got wasted enough to lose my grasp on reality or black out.
With Matt, nothing was typical. My senses didn’t need to be diluted in liquor to get through it with him. I didn’t want to escape. I wanted to be acutely aware of each and every moment I spent with him. Each touch. Each embrace. Each promising word that fell through his beautiful lips.
His words from earlier replayed in my mind: It is different with us.
He was right. I wasn’t using him to forget my life like I had used the others. I wasn’t using him at all. Was I?
Shit. I didn’t really know what the hell was happening between us, and it hurt my brain to try to define it. I did know this, though:
He made me remember who I used to be.
His friendship made me feel like I had more to offer than just my body.
His touch made me feel cherished and relevant.
All those things put together had already left a mark on my heart. And the sex. The sex was phenomenal.
I took the water from him and chugged it down, the heat of his stare penetrating my skin. When I finished, I handed him the glass, his distance a mere few inches from me, and he set it on the table, not taking his eyes off me once.
Then, he started it.
His hands rested on my waist, and it felt better than anything. He pulled me against him and when his breath tickled my neck, I let out a soft sigh.
“Come with me,” he whispered in my ear just before delicately nibbling on the lobe, his stubble vaguely scratching against my skin. He continued down my neck, trailing wet, tempting, kisses as he led us toward another room. Between kisses, he breathed me in and a faint moan escaped him, “God, Chloe, have I told you yet how fucking incredible you smell?”
I answered him with my lips against his, my hands lifting up his shirt to untuck it as we stumbled somewhere together. I slipped my fingers underneath the cotton fabric to graze them along the defined muscles of his stomach.
“Have I told you how incredible you feel?” I asked against his neck.
We reached the stairs, and he took my hand, leading me up. As we ascended, the faint smell of new construction flavored the air, growing stronger. When we arrived at the top, he walked me through the darkness, stopping to turn on a small golden desk lamp that casted a shadowy yellow glow into the room.
My eyes briefly explored the space, an attic that had been converted to a bedroom, which appeared to extend the entire length of the small home. Everything was wooden. The floors. The walls. The sloped ceiling.
The craftsmanship was beautiful.
But not as beautiful as the man standing before me.
I inwardly laughed at my own inner-thought, suddenly aware that I read way too much romance, a habit I picked up early on from my sister. Nevertheless, it was true. Every solid-muscled, sexy-faced, kind-spirited part of him was beautiful.
“It’s beautiful up here,” I said. “Did you remodel it?”
“Yeah,” he replied as he led me toward the bed that rested on the far wall in front of two windows. “Just finished a few weeks ago. I
t took me almost a year to do in between working at the shop and doing security on the side, but it was worth it.”
“You did this yourself?” I asked as I took a look around the room. The wood paneled ceiling sloped down on each side of the bed, giving a cozy feel to an otherwise abundant amount of floor-space. The architecture of the room was truly incredible, but when I felt the heat of his body press against mine, and his hand slip under my shirt, making its way to my breast, the distraction consumed me, our environment becoming a mere afterthought. My lids instinctively closed from the sensation of his thumb circling my nipple through the thin fabric of my bra. His warm, wet lips trailed up my jaw, his hot breath tickling my ear.
Giving in to the invigoration he inspired within me, I let out a soft sigh and whispered, “Is there anything you can’t do?”
He removed his mouth from my neck and looked at me with intensity. I could tell the answer that lingered on his tongue wanted to jump out, but he hesitated. What was he thinking?
“Let’s pretend that there is nothing I can’t do,” he answered. “What would you want from me then? I mean…if I could do anything?”
“Nothing,” I replied honestly. “I don’t want anything from you, Matt. I just want you.”
I could feel his eyes on me. I knew that neither of us were talking anymore, but I couldn’t seem to form words at the moment. My focus landed solely on his mouth. I loved how his teeth were mostly straight but had just enough crooked imperfection to give him a compelling amount of individuality. I loved the shape of his lips too. Not too full, not too thin. And so soft for such a masculine guy. Mix that with the short stubble surrounding them and—dear God, I wanted them on me.
“And your lips,” I confessed. “I’d like to have those, too. On me.”
“Is that so?” he asked, holding back a laugh.
I nodded.
He carefully traced his fingers along my jaw and to my chin. With our height difference, I instinctively found myself on tip-toes, my arms wrapped around his neck. The way he looked at me, completely absorbed in my features, was the best kind of aphrodisiac. My body had already been on high alert, but now, with him taking me in like this, the urge to be close to him, to touch him the way I need to touch him, and be touched that way in return, was stronger than ever.
The Fragile Line: The Complete Series Box Set: Parts One, Two, & Three Page 19
