Ripped (Real, #5)(41)

So I do.

And he rubs in, wet and slick, hot and deeper, lips angling over mine. My world spins and I grab his hard arms and push closer, while his hands settle on my bottom and he pulls me up against his hips. I can feel his big erection against my tummy. But it’s at the wrong place. I want it somewhere else.

I’m ready to twine my legs around him and rub myself against him, when he tears free and sets me aside as though it’s taking a monumental effort to do so. The mountain unable to stay away from Muhammad. “Stay here, babe. Don’t so much as twitch a single of your sweet, long, delectable little muscles. I’ll be back in three songs.”

He steps onto the elevator platform as a counter lights up in the dressing room, counting from 10 down to 0. Then he seems to remember the costume change. Racing into the room, he swears and jerks off his shirt, grabbing a new one from a hanger before he climbs back up onto the platform again.

I cover my mouth. Wet and hot, it tingles, and tastes of him.

“Stay here,” he says again.

His pale eyes glimmer on me, and his feet are braced apart, hands fisted at his sides.

I’m so hot I’m roasting in my skin. I can’t answer. God, what is he doing to me?

The moment the platform shoots back up, I groan in despair. Then I hear his voice above me. Shit. What am I doing? I start pacing, imagining licking his nipple and rubbing him like those dancers did. I’m feeling a little envious of all those people ogling him right now, but most of all, I feel high. With emotion. Desire.

Lust.

I’m still here waiting. Why am I waiting? I can’t think of anything except his nipple under my tongue. Silver eyes. That wig I’m going to yank off him so I can run my fingers over his close-cropped hair.

When there’s finally a huge, huge roar—after like a year!—I know the show is over.

My heart is pounding as I wonder where he’ll come from. After a few more moments, he charges down some hidden side stairs, his body filling the doorway.

Like two magnets, our eyes lock.

My breathing hitches.

Mackenna yanks off the small microphone taped to his back and the earbud in his ear, then tosses them aside.

He starts walking toward me. There are all kinds of cables and contraptions around us, and I back up until I hit a wall with a metal door. My brain feels as scattered as the butterflies in my stomach.

Oh god, I have to let him.

No. I can’t let him.

Panicked for what I feel, I turn and run, frantically searching for an exit. Down here, it’s a labyrinth. I’m dodging cables and equipment, but there is no exit I can find.

Behind me I hear his footsteps gaining on me and then, low and rough with lust: “Pandora.”

He’s at my back, hand on my wrist, pulling me back to him. My heart is pounding helplessly in my throat as I feel my muscles sag at his touch. I let him turn me. I face him, full of dread, want, dismay as I let him slowly press me up against the metal door. He eases his hands into the waistband of my skirt as I grab his spiky mohawk and pull on it. He drags his nose against mine as I toss the wig aside, and I kiss the top of his head because . . . I don’t even know why. Because he’s Mackenna Jones. Infuriating and odious and also . . . an adorable dreamer I once knew, who made his dream come true. The kiss was impulsive, but it makes him groan as though it did something profound to him. I’m shaking with emotion, and he’s shaking with something I suppose is adrenaline.

“Are you wet?” he asks through panting breaths.

“Yes,” I say. And I am. From watching him, with his chest sweaty, and from the feel of his inked skin, warm under my fingers.

“I’m so f*cking turned on,” he groans and shoves my panties aside, giving me two fingers. Just like that. They slip in so easily because I’m soaked. I have no control, and I can’t stop myself from throwing my head back and riding those fingers with a circle of my hips. Oh god nothing’s ever felt like this. . . . He bites my lower lip and sucks it into his mouth. It feels hot and wet and good. So good. I bite his lip hungrily, sinking my nails in his scalp.

“Kenna,” I moan.

“God, I missed the way you say my name like that.”

Except you know this can’t happen, Pandora, this is going nowhere but a dark, dangerous dead end.

And because I know this, it’s with a strange pain and dread that I stand here, both wanting and not wanting what I can tell by his gaze he’s about to do.

He spreads my arms out and pulls my shirt off. The cool air brushes across my skin, and my nipples pucker as he unfastens my bra.

“Don’t, Kenna,” I suddenly say, stepping back and awkwardly closing my bra.

“Don’t f*cking cover up, Pink,” he gruffly commands.

My hands shake as I try to fasten my bra back up.

He chuckles—the sound sexy, male—and tsks as he tugs my bra open again, his fingers brushing my skin as he tosses it aside.

He doesn’t know the regrets and memories roiling inside me as he cups me in his hands. He leans down to kiss my lips, and he smells of mint, his hands warm. My breathing quickens and I gasp when he tugs my skirt up to my hips and drops to one knee, spreads my legs, and takes my ankle in his firm grip.

“One leg up around my shoulders,” he says.

I lift my leg, and he bends over to set his mouth on my *. The heat of his tongue as it flashes over my clit makes me moan.