Rugged(85)

“I uh, I meant exactly what I said,” I reply, crossing my arms. Good. Smooth recovery, doofus.

“And Charlotte? What about Charlotte?” His voice is rising now. “Why would you bring her into this?”

“What do you mean? You’re back with her, together, all lovey dovey and housey wousey and sunflowers or whatever! I don’t do this baby talk shit!” I’m yelling, my voice echoing in the empty parking garage, and he comes over and stands before me, towering like a…big hot hunk of tower.

“You’re bringing up Charlotte after you spent yesterday rubbing your new guy in my face?” he asks. Every word is a crisp, clean snap. My heart starts pounding.

“New guy? Gay guy, is that what you meant?” I almost laugh at his confused look. “Thomas is the gayest man in the world. He goes to Sound of Music singalongs at the Hollywood Bowl without irony—that’s how gay! Did you not notice him drooling over you? How could you possibly think we were together?”

“You’re not?” Flint asks. He steps towards me, a wild, crackling light in his eyes. “Really?”

I can’t resist him anymore. I don’t even think.

One microsecond later, I’m in his arms.





32


His hands are in my hair, trailing down my back, gripping my ass as we kiss, the forceful thrust of his tongue scorching hot and needy. I’m dizzy with desire, completely overwhelmed by the taste of him, the smell of him, his touch everything I’ve longed for these past months, and as I lose myself in the kiss he walks us forward, almost like we’re dancing, until we hit a cinderblock wall.

“How fast can we make it upstairs?” he asks, eyeing my car as he pulls back. But I’ve already been down that road, at least in my imagination, and nothing says mood-killer like elbowing someone in the face or accidentally kneeling on their balls because you’re trying to accordion their gorgeous but massive body into your less-than-roomy backseat.

“We don’t have to,” I reply, grabbing him by his shirt collar and pulling him into the laundry room with me. I slap the light switch off and slam the door, twisting the lock. It’s just me and Flint and the laundry, all of us hot and tumbling around wildly in the pitch dark room. Flint’s rough hands go to my waist, pulling me hard against him.

“Flint,” I sigh into his mouth.

Wait. Stop.

Charlotte. Charlotte. We need to talk about Charlotte. I am not okay with this. I will not give myself over to this kind of stupid, horny—

When Flint lifts me in his arms, burying his face in my neck, biting me softly there, I completely lose my train of thought. The reaction is instant, perfect cause and effect. I’m not thinking anymore. He takes a few tentative steps in the dark and stops when he comes up against the dryer, setting me on top of it. The machine is vibrating with the rotation of the laundry tumbling inside it, and the steel is deliciously warm under my ass.

“Tell me what you want,” Flint whispers, an urgent note in his voice.

Literally every thought I have ever had about Charlotte, right and wrong, good and evil, up and down, f*cking everything goes out of my mind as I pull him toward me, wrapping my legs around his waist. I moan as I squeeze him with my thighs, grinding against the button fly of his jeans. My hand goes up to stroke the stubble along his jawline, and I nip at his lower lip, then lap his tongue with mine, letting myself go to my happy place as my hands slide up under his shirt to feel the muscles of his chest. Mmmm.

I get that flannel off him so fast that I’m sure I deserve an Olympic medal in de-shirting hot, rugged men. Surely a bronze, maybe even a silver. My hands trail down his back, across his abs, and then I find the bulge in his jeans and rub my thumb against it.

He wraps a hand around my throat, carefully, easing me away from him.

“Tell me what you want, Laurel,” he repeats, running his other hand up my leg, over my knee, pushing my skirt up around my hips. I tremble as Flint strokes my inner thigh, his hand teasing higher, closer. The machine under me is sending light vibrations through my skin, and as Flint paws at my underwear with one hand, his grip firm but gentle on my throat, I feel something inside me twinge with the need I’ve been holding back for so long. When he dips his hand into my panties and slips a finger into me, pressing deep and sure, I buck my hips, rocking against the sweet penetration.

“I,” I pant, speechless in the moment. But that nagging idea—Charlotte, Charlotte dammit, this is wrong—keeps tugging at me, threatening to pull me out of my rampaging adrenaline. “I want you,” I whisper at last, so hungry for him that nothing else matters.

Flint leans toward me with a groan, ravaging my mouth as he tugs my panties down my legs. When he reaches for the buttons on my blouse, I push his hands back and grab at the waistband of his jeans, wrenching the buttons apart.

“No. You, now. Please.” At least I said please. “Give.”

Once his pants are down, he grabs my ass and lifts me a few inches forward on the dryer, until we’re in perfect alignment, the tip of his cock pressing against my cunt. I groan loudly as he eases into me, taking his time, inch by inch. I can barely breathe. “Fuck me,” I urge him, digging my fingers into his thick biceps, but to no avail. He glides in slowly, filling me all the way up, pressing into that good spot deep inside me, and with the beat of the dryer driving rhythmically into my ass I can already tell I won’t last long.