Rugged(31)

“I think taking off your shirt is a great idea.” I lean back, arm against the bar. Well, we’re not working together now, that’s for damn sure. What’s wrong with a little harmless flirtation? Or a lot of it. “Despite our ignoble ending, you threatening to beat the shit out of Tyler was a moment I will never forget. Thank you for that.” I hold up another tequila shot. We clink glasses, and it goes down the hatch. You know, I think I’m going to make tequila a part of my daily life. Maybe breakfast. Great time for booze.

“I’ve seen too many *s like that in my life. Trying to claw their way to the top so they can feel less shitty about themselves.” He shakes his head. “They have no pride. People who do good work because they love it, those people have integrity. Like you.” He takes my hand, running his thumb lightly over my palm. “I think it’s what I like best about you.” My toes curl in my faux-leather pumps.

Like? Flint likes me. Things about me, that is. But still. Things are a good start.

“So you think that’s a good quality?” I ask. My blood’s singing in my veins.“It’s sexy.” He whispers it in my ear. My breath hitches in my throat. Maybe it’s just the effects of the tequila, but my skin seems to vibrate with his touch. I playfully take his arm, and keep my hand there.

“Maybe you’re a little drunk, Mr. McKay. I’d hate to take advantage of you. Again.” My voice is low and throaty. I rub my thumb in small circles against the inside of his bicep. Flint leans in towards me, his perfect mouth curving into a smile.

“Would you really hate it?” His hand slides delicately onto my knee, and I move it higher, up my thigh. He doesn’t resist. And then something in his eyes goes dark and determined, like he’s made his mind up about something, and he gives my thigh a firm squeeze that makes me gasp. Oh God, I think I’m going to explode.

“I wouldn’t hate it,” I say. “But it might be a bad idea.” But I don’t believe it for one second. Nothing about this idea is bad. Nothing at all.

“Do you think it’s bad?” he asks. Our faces are so close now. There’s a kind of energy humming between us, a tension practically buzzing in my ears.

“Yes,” I say. “But in my experience, bad can be very, very good.”

Our eyes are locked. Flint’s fingers trace the sensitive skin of my inner thigh in slow, teasing circles. I’m starting to tremble, and I think—no, I know—that the light in his eyes is growing hotter. He likes this, his hand up my skirt in the middle of this bar where anyone can see us. And f*ck it, so do I.

All the thoughts I’ve had for the entire shooting and pitching process—that I shouldn’t think about Flint, shouldn’t linger over memories of that night in the alleyway, shouldn’t imagine his hands all over me—are slipping away. I want him, and right now it’s clear as day: he wants me, too. It’s the revelation I never even hoped for.

So. Make a choice, Laurel.

And I do. I lick the last of the tequila from the edge of my shot glass, nice and slow so Flint can watch my tongue tracing the curve of the glass, and then I lean forward and press my wet lips against his, the kiss hard and lingering. A shock of heat builds between us and Flint growls when I finally pull back.

“Well?” I whisper, my mouth close to his. “Bad, or good?”

“Very f*cking good.”

Then Flint presses a warm, firm hand to the nape of my neck and drives his lips into mine. I moan softly as our kiss deepens, as he searches my mouth with his tongue. This isn’t like last time at all. This time, our connection is stronger, more real. Everything we’ve been through together—our triumphs and failures, the trust we’ve built, the moments we’ve laughed, the pain we’ve shared—it’s bonded us. When he finally pulls away I gasp, needing more. My pulse is pounding hot and fast in my cheeks, my chest, my cunt. I stand up, dizzy, my legs so weak with desire I almost fall down.

“Let’s get out of here,” I manage to say.

“Not too tipsy, are you?” Flint asks, wrapping his arm around my waist and pulling me against the hard lines of his body.

“To drive? Probably. Otherwise, I’m ready for anything.”

“Then let’s get you home,” Flint says, kissing me into a lusty haze all over again. His gaze is liquid, simmering. I can’t dial up Uber fast enough. I’ll get my Camaro in the morning.

Fifteen minutes later, we’re in the hallway outside my apartment door. I dig through my bag for my keys while Flint kisses the back of my neck, his hot, rough hands sliding up my skirt and over my breasts, pausing only to pinch my nipples until I gasp.

Fuck it. I throw my purse on the floor and turn around to kiss him back, grinding into the bulge in his jeans like my life depends on it. Making out with Flint is a lot like sparring in Krav Maga—intense, physically strenuous, and a total adrenaline rush—except neither of us is in pain and we both get to win.

“Oh my God,” I pant, pulling back for air. I want to eat this man alive. My pulse is pounding, and his gaze is dark with need.

“Do you need me to break down that door?” he asks. “’Cause I can’t wait any longer.”

Neither can I. And I’m just about ready to f*ck him right here in the hallway, but by virtue of some actual miracle (or, you know, my purple monster keychain) I spot the keys lying on the floor, along with the rest of the contents of my bag, and I make Flint unlock the door as I hurriedly stuff everything back into my purse, both of us stumbling into my apartment with barely-contained desire.