Getting Played (Getting Some, #2)(5)

“This is a good song. John Cafferty and The Beaver Brown Band.”

I feel the chuckle that comes from his chest. “Most people would’ve said Eddie and the Cruisers.”

I shake my head. “Not me. I know my music.”

He strokes my hair down my back.

“What kind of music do you like, beautiful?”

“I like songs that tell a story. That make me feel. That make me remember. There’s a song for every big moment in my life.”

“Me too.” He rests his chin on the top of my head. “When I was a kid, music always made sense to me, even if nothing else did.”

“Yeah.” I nod.

And he smells so good—like sandalwood and spice and a unique, clean man-scent that’s just him. I want to run my nose across his skin—smelling up every inch of him.

When the song ends, our eyes lock. And I whisper his name, because I like the taste of it on my tongue. “Dean…”

He swallows harshly, his throat rippling, his eyes tracing my face.

“Lainey… Jesus.”

Then his mouth comes down on mine—hard and hot. His hands sink into my hair, angling my head, and a needy, frantic spike of pleasure streaks up my spine with every stroke of his warm, wet tongue.

It’s a great kiss, the kind they write songs about. A movie-star kiss—that gets the audience all hot and bothered. The kind of kiss that deserves surging background music—a whole soundtrack—that goes on and on and on.

“I wanted to do this the second I saw you,” he tells me between kisses.

I sigh against him, molding my body to his, warm putty in his strong, talented hands.

“I wanted that too.”

His fingers dance across my rib cage, pushing my tank-top up and off. And the sensation of our bare stomachs pressing, my breasts rubbing against the hard heat of his chest, is nothing short of heaven.

“It was all I could think about the whole set. Walking off that fucking stage and kissing the hell out of you.”

I wrap my arms around his neck—pulling him nearer, wanting him closer.

“Yes.”

Dean’s arm is an iron band across my lower back, lifting me off my feet, moving us into the apartment. He pushes me against the wall, grinding the unrelenting ridge of his erection against my pelvis. And it’s so good—that mindless kind of good that’s all instinct and no thought. An effortless intimacy that makes me tremble.

He holds my face in his hands when he kisses me—and I love that. The way his tongue delves deep, his fingers brushing my cheek, like I’m something precious.

His lips slide down to my neck, rasping against my skin.

“Lainey, are you drunk?”

“Yeah.” I rub my cheek against the spiky stubble on his jaw, and moan with how damn good it feels. “But not too drunk. I know what I’m doing. I know what I want.”

He straightens up and looks into my eyes, both of us breathing hard.

“Tell me.” He sweeps his thumb against my lip, like he can’t stop touching me. “Tell me what you want and I’ll give it to you.”

“I want you.”

I skim my palm over the ripples of his abs into the front of his pants, cupping him, taking the hot, impossibly hard length of him in my hand and stroking up and down.

“I want this. I want to feel you inside me.”

He groans, diving back in. “That’s a great answer.”

He kisses my breasts over the lace of my bra, sliding to his knees, nibbling my stomach on the way down. My jeans are unbuttoned, tugged down and off my legs.

“What do you want?” I ask, because I want to hear his words.

For a moment, he stares at the pale, pink lace of my panties.

“I want to make you come so many fucking times.”

That sentence—and the rough, needy way he says it—almost makes me come all by itself.

Dean pulls me forward by my hips, pushing my panties aside, and puts his mouth on me. And he goes down on me like a guy who really, really likes going down on a woman. He takes his time, kissing me open-mouthed—swirling his tongue and sucking gently at my flesh.

Heat surges through my veins and it feels like the floor has left the building—like I’m about to fall, about to fly. My nails scrape the wall beside me for something to hold on to.

Dean’s voice is low and husky. “You taste like fucking candy.” He skims my panties all the way down and off, then he looks up at me—into my eyes. “Open your legs for me, Lainey.”

And it’s the sexiest moment of my life.

Until I do.

And Dean spreads me with his fingers, and drags his tongue up and down, slow and deliberate. He slides his fingers inside me, pumping his hand, and his tongue moves to my clit, making tight, hard circles over and over. I’ve never had an orgasm in this position—standing up—but Dean seems hell-bent and determined to make it happen.

His fingers, tongue and lips work me over in the same rhythm. And that decadent, telltale pressure starts low in my stomach, building and cresting and spreading out through my limbs.

“Oh, God,” I whimper. “Oh, God.”

My hips rotate all on their own, and I grip Dean’s hair—pressing mindlessly against his face. The sensations claw and climb higher and higher, until a deep moan drags out of me that would make a porn star blush. And everything goes tight and pulsing and I’m plummeting with the pleasure—falling so hard, right over the edge.