Rush: The Season (Austin Arrows Book 1)(62)

I know I’m to blame for everything that has happened thus far tonight. Or maybe I should blame the tequila.

But what happens next…

That is definitely not my fault.

I don’t think.





Kingston

I’m having a hard time breathing.

It all started when I noticed Ellie unbuttoning her shirt, slowly revealing smooth skin and a black lace bra. Although I could stand here and watch the striptease without feeling an ounce of guilt, I know I shouldn’t. I definitely want to, but that doesn’t make it right.

Ellie has been drinking and she isn’t thinking straight. Still, the only thing I can think about is how f*cking much I want this woman.

When I insisted on taking her home to ensure she arrived safely, I didn’t think much past opening her front door and watching her go inside, maybe depositing her on the couch. Leading her in and helping her to her bedroom wasn’t on my original agenda. I know from experience that her couch is comfortable. She could’ve slept right there, and I would’ve done my good deed for the day and wouldn’t be torn between giving in to the overwhelming desire I have to strip her naked and slowly slide deep into her welcoming body or…

I’m not even sure there is another choice at the moment. Not with the way she’s looking at me.

“Kingston.” The whispered word sounds more like a plea, and I’m hard-pressed to fight my need for her.

“We can’t do this, Ellie,” I say, wanting to rip out my voice box so my subconscious can’t speak for me anymore.

We could do this.

God, I want to do this so bad it f*cking hurts.

“Spencer won’t find out.”

That is the least of my worries, to be honest. I’m fairly certain that I will be able to recover from any physical pain Spencer puts me in for f*cking his sister, but I won’t be able to recover if Ellie wakes up tomorrow and regrets what we did.

And she will regret it.

I’ve been around through all of the dates she’s had in the past decade—of which there really haven’t been many—and I recall her swearing off that particular man she’d gone out with after the encounter. Every time.

I’m not going to allow her to push me away. Not when I haven’t yet had the chance to pull her closer.

“Let’s get your boots off,” I tell her, placing my hand on her chest and gently urging her back.

Her skin is soft and warm against my palm, so much so that I’m distracted by my body’s ridiculous physical response to her. So when Ellie grabs my wrist and shifts my hand so that I’m cupping her breast, I damn near pass the f*ck out.

“Ellie, no. We can’t,” I urge, my hand gently kneading her breast as though I’ve said just the opposite.

“Touch me, Kingston,” she pleads. “Please.”

Fucking hell. Resisting this woman when she isn’t begging is hard enough. When she is…

She’s drunk.

Right. She’s been drinking, and I shouldn’t do this.

My hand isn’t listening, continuing to caress her, my fingers dipping beneath the edge of her bra, the backs of my fingers sliding over soft, smooth flesh, teasing her nipple. Ellie’s back arches, her hand still holding my wrist as I fondle her gently.

“We can’t do this, Ellie,” I tell her again, wondering who the f*ck is speaking out of my mouth as I rest one knee on the mattress between her thighs and lean over her. Apparently my body is detached from my common sense, because the words spilling out of my mouth are the right ones, but my actions are proof that no one is listening to me. Not even me.

I just want a little taste. Just enough to sate me until tomorrow when she’s sober and I can convince her that this thing between us is too strong to ignore.

Dropping my head, I press my lips to her collarbone, kissing her softly. When she moans, her other hand sliding behind my neck and pulling me closer, I feel my control slip. With the fingers I’ve been caressing her with, I tug her bra down, revealing her nipple.

Pink.

Her nipples are a dusky pink, just as I imagined.

And hard.

Perfectly puckered, begging for my mouth.

“Lick me,” she urges.

My control slips another notch, my tongue sliding over her skin, moving lower as I curl it around the hardened point.

Ellie sucks in a breath, her hips shifting, her denim-covered * grinding against my thigh, which is pressing intimately against her. “Please, Kingston. I need to come.”

I suck her into my mouth, lashing her nipple with the tip of my tongue while she rides my thigh, her hands tugging my shirt until it’s freed from my jeans. I inhale sharply when her soft hands slide along my back, her fingernails dragging lightly over my skin.

“Don’t stop,” she encourages. “I need more.”

This is so wrong. I know it, and I figure, even in her alcohol-induced stupor, she knows it. Only she has tequila to blame her lack of inhibitions on. Me … I’m stone-cold sober because I resisted the urge to do shots with my teammates when I noticed Ellie had opted to join them. Which means I have no excuse. I’m driven by pure and simple lust.

I’m also walking a very fine line that could ultimately backfire on me.

Still, I can’t stop.

I continue to lave her breast, nipping and sucking her smooth, warm skin while Ellie moans, her hands pulling me closer. I’m so caught up in the moment I don’t stop when her hands disappear and I feel them move between our bodies.