Bad Cruz(50)

“It was me Dalton described. What the heck was that about?” I trailed behind Cruz, trying to keep up.

“You’re not the only blonde in Fairhope.”

“Hazel eyes? Weird name? Questionable personality?”

“I meant Taylor Cunningham.”

“Taylor’s not a weird name.”

She wasn’t a blonde, either, and had a perfectly pleasant temperament, but I gave him the benefit of the doubt since her hair was light.

“You think?” He took a sharp turn to the right, after trying to find the elevators to his left. “I think it’s a guy’s name. Used to be, anyway. It’s all gender fluid these days.”

I wanted him to stop.

I wanted to talk about what it meant.

But…I wanted him in my panties more, so I put a pin on the conversation.

“Where are the damn elevators?” Cruz seethed.

It was the first time I’d seen him even remotely flustered, wanting something instead of having it automatically given to him, and it gave me a lot of pride and joy to know it was me who made him that way.

“Not sure, but there’s a maintenance room about a hundred feet from us.”

“Good enough.” He made an actual beeline toward the door. “I can’t chance you changing your mind on me again. No time.”

A second later, we were huddled in the maintenance room. It was nestled in a corner of the deck, unseen by others, full to the brim with tool bags, brooms, a ladder, toiler paper rolls, and cleaning products.

Cruz locked the door behind us and pinned me against it, his arms resting on either side of my shoulders as he looked down at me. His breath skated down my face, sweet and alcoholic, hitting all my systems, giving me goosebumps.

“I—”

I started to say something to fill the unbearable, tension-filled silence, but his mouth crushed against mine with force before I could take a breath.

“No, Turner. You’re not going to sass your way out of this one.”

This kiss was way different to the one yesterday.

To put it mildly, Cruz Costello went for broke and pulled out all the stops.

It was animalistic, raw, and bruising. An RSVP to the invitation I’d given him earlier that evening, when my pinkie grazed the buttons of his jeans.

My head swam with a heady, raw need.

He pushed me flat against the wooden door, grabbing the backs of my thighs and wrapping my legs around his narrow waist like in the movies. A broomstick crashed beside us, sending a row of cleaning products sitting on a shelf raining down on the floor.

Neither of us seemed to care under the haze of liquor and hormones.

He hissed into my mouth when I opened for him, my tongue dancing with his. He tasted so good, so male, and I wanted more of him. I wanted all of him. I couldn’t remember why I’d ever hated him.

I threaded my fingers through his hair, tugging him to me, twisting my head here and there, to kiss him from different angles, deeper, faster, more passionately.

We kissed like teenagers. Groaning and pulling and biting and sighing. Like the world was about to end, and we had to get our fill before it was all over.

Even when I closed my eyes, his mustache reminded me that it was Cruz Costello I was kissing, and it made me so wet I was pretty sure that mop in the room we were occupying was going to be put to good use by the time we were done.

“Tennessee Lilybeth Turner.” My name fell from his lips in astonishment, like he couldn’t believe what we were doing. “The most beautiful girl alive.”

Okay, that was a stretch, but I wasn’t going to argue.

He dropped his head down at the same time he pushed my breasts up through my dress, French-kissing said breasts through the fabric. It was even more erotic than having him pop them out and going to town.

Because there was anticipation in this.

I watched him working, licking, suckling my swollen and sensitive nipples. They ached for more and for less and for I-wasn’t-sure-what-else. He scraped his teeth over them, rubbing them in a way that felt so delicious, so good, I thought I was going to burst.

“What’s the protocol on women climaxing too fast these days?” I mumbled, forgetting to tuck my drunkenness in, my hands all over his firm butt.

Luckily, Cruz was too busy not busting his own load to notice. He seemed like the kind of bothersome nobleman to stop whatever we were doing if he knew how trashed I was.

I. Needed. This.

He dropped to his knees in front of me, his big strong hands clutching my waist as he kissed his way down my body, skimming past my belly, navel, and continuing south.

“Haven’t you noticed already?” he murmured into the fabric of my dress. “You can do whatever the hell you want and still be golden in my eyes.”

Whoa.

That had to be hands-down the sexiest thing anyone had ever said to me.

Which, granted, didn’t mean much, seeing as the runner-up was “Hey, baby, wanna show me them tits?”

I let Cruz fling one of my legs over his shoulder, pull my panties to the side, and draw a generous, long and deep inhale.



There.

I’d never received or reciprocated when it came to oral sex, never got that far in my sexual repertoire, although I’d watched enough porn to know the technicalities of it.

Though I had to admit, I found it much less embarrassing when some pixel-faced stranger on a porn site in a homemade video was getting her lady bits licked while moaning in a language I was pretty sure belonged to The Sims than it did in real life.