Rock Bottom (Tristan & Danika #2)(22)

I had to pick her up and set her on the table to get her upright, and even then she leaned forward against me, her head on my shoulder. I copped a feel, completely powerless to keep my hands off her bra-free tits.

“Just remember, if you ever decide to wear something like this again, this is what will happen. You won’t be able to get anything done, because I won’t be able to stop touching you for more than seconds at a time.”

“I need a nap,” she said, sounding half-asleep already.

“I need inside of you again,” I said into her ear, already trying to work her shorts back over her hips.

Copping a feel had backfired in a hurry. My brainless c**k had taken it to heart.

I f**ked her sitting up that time, leaning her back on her hands so I could watch her round br**sts bounce with every jarring thrust, her shirt pulled up to her neck.

Frankie knocked loudly on the door for that round, telling us to hurry up. I shouted loudly back for her to f**k off.

I pounded into Danika, growling, cursing, praising, all the while completely mesmerized by her naked chest. Something about having just the tops of her shoulders covered, and the rest of her bare, was turning me into a sex-crazed maniac.

Come to think of it, everything about her turned me into a sex-crazed maniac.

She moaned almost lazily as she came that time, squeezing me like a vise for torturous, drawn out moments.

I shouted and came, laid her back on her elbows, spread her legs wider, bringing her heels up to the table, and hard again, I pushed inside of her.

Again.

She was so slick, so full of me, and I groaned and cursed and rutted mindlessly in her until my legs wouldn’t hold me for another second.

I leaned forward on my elbows as I twitched and spurted inside of her, my face in her neck, and wondered if anyone would notice if we passed out on Frankie’s table for a few hours.

“You better clean up after yourselves, you nymphomaniac horndogs!” Frankie was shouting on the other side of the door.

Who knew how long she’d been shouting? Not me.

“I put Clorox wipes by the door, lovebirds!” she shouted, maybe five minutes later.

I blinked, wondered if I’d been sleeping, and then studied Danika, trying to figure out if she was sleeping. She was still managing to prop herself up on her elbows high enough not to lay directly on her fresh tattoo.

“I hope she doesn’t think we’re going to use those to clean ourselves,” I muttered, trying to find the strength to stand up straight.

“I think those are for her table that we desecrated,” Danika murmured, eyes still closed.

“And the floor! And the wall! And everything else you touched in there!” Frankie shouted.

“How about you work on getting thicker walls in here, Miss Nosypants?” Danika shouted back without missing a beat, her face still looking relaxed enough to be asleep.

I couldn’t help it. I laughed. Even nearly unconscious, she could manage to dish out sass.

CHAPTER NINE

DANIKA

I blew out my breath in a noisy sigh of frustration as we missed the step, yet again.

My dance partner, Preston, was a good sport about it, as usual. I’d worked with more experienced dancers, but I far preferred one with a good attitude. The guy never had a bad day.

“You wanna call it?” he asked with a smile, giving my fingers a little squeeze.

He knew better. I’d never be the one to call an end to a session. I always wanted to stay until we got the steps down right.

Our instructor strode into the room, took in our stances, and turned on his heel, moving directly to the stereo. I smiled when Mary J. Blige’s Family Affair came on. It was impossible not to dance to that song, or to stay in a bad mood when you heard it.

Anthony, our instructor, was at least forty, but still had a sexy older man kind of vibe, with salt and pepper hair, a slim but muscular build, steely gray eyes, and a hot Italian accent. He was also just plain nice, which went a long way with me.

I pulled away from Preston, loosened up my stance, and started dancing. Not the tango, just good old feeling it dancing.

Anthony moved closer, but not too close, moving his shoulders, twisting his hips. No Italian man had ever moved so well to MJB. The man had soul. Our sessions always ended like this, in a freestyle jam, so I knew we were done. His disposition, along with his talent, were what had attracted me to his dance studio. No matter what, I never wanted to stop doing this because I loved it, and I’d worked with people that forgot that part.

Tristan was out of town yet again, and so I went out for dinner and drinks with a group of dancers afterward, and, as was becoming the pattern, Preston wound up sitting next to me.

I was aware, in an uncomfortable sort of way, that he liked me as more than just a friend. He couldn’t have been further off my radar as far as that was concerned. I was a one man kind of woman.

But even if I had been single, I wouldn’t have gone out with him.

He was a good-looking guy, with light brown hair, and hazel eyes. His build was very slender, and he was a few inches shy of six feet. I’d developed a very marked taste for huge men that towered over me and had biceps like tree trunks. Tristan had officially ruined me.

The group stayed and talked for hours. I drank sparingly. I hadn’t been much of a drinker since Jared’s death. It had served as a wake-up call for me. I was not immune to the pitfalls of vice.