Crashed Out (Made in Jersey, #1)(11)

Ay Dios. The music wasn’t the only thing swelling. The seams of her underwear felt abrasive against her sensitive areas, so close to the epicenter of need at the juncture of her thighs. When it occurred to Jasmine that a whispered plea into the darkness could bring Sarge into her bedroom, where he would weigh her down with his aggressively hot body, she almost gave in and used restless fingers to stroke at the thrumming ache. But the music cut out suddenly, the abrupt silence having the effect of a fluorescent light being flipped on.

“Why did you stop?” Jasmine called, when she’d regained her relative composure. “I liked that one.”

She thought she heard Sarge say something in the neighborhood of you should, but couldn’t be positive. Her eyelids were beginning to droop, even as the sounds of Sarge replacing his guitar in its case filled the small apartment. How odd that the song had relaxed her, even as it excited her body. But the oddity of the situation lay in the fact that it didn’t feel odd at all. A mixture of comfort and confusion seemed to fit perfectly with her new perception of Sarge.

Jasmine reached for the forever-unused pillow propped beside her on the bed, wedging it between her thighs in an attempt to cull the rush of sensation. Just before she drifted off, she heard Sarge say, “That was the last censored version you’re getting, Jas.”

Her pulse skittered in her veins, sending her into tumultuous, heated, and forbidden dreams. They were full of disjointed groans and grabbing hands. Gratified grunts and straining bodies. A man was there, grappling for the upper hand, but her dream self continued to close her eyes—attempting to block him out—while luring him closer with her body. Until…oh God, until he grew tired of her mixed signals and struggled her into submission. Pinning her wrists at her sides, his hair dragging a trail over her belly button as he licked down to a core that had never felt so empty.

“Fill me,” Jasmine breathed, waking herself as the words echoed like a shout in a tunnel. Sweat was still warm on her skin, shock working its way into her conscious to find the room illuminated by daylight. A quick check of her clock told her she’d woken before her alarm, something she never did.

Thank God. A fluttering hand found her damp chest. The last thing she needed when she felt so primed for pleasure, so rattled with the ferocity of her dreams, was to come face-to-face with the newly minted man who she feared had somehow inspired them, although she’d be damned before saying it out loud.

Jasmine’s toes were still curled when they met the cool hardwood floor. Her knees shook a little as she stood, slipped from the room, and beelined for the bathroom, refusing to spare so much as a glance into the guest room. A quick shower had her feeling somewhat refreshed, but pulling on her soft, worn-in jeans was a separate issue altogether. They slid up freshly shaven legs like a caress, folding her around her hips and backside like a squeeze from two hands. Putting on her basic cotton bra chafed her sensitive nipples, sending her teeth burrowing into an already-chewed-on bottom lip to hold in the resulting whimper.

Across the hallway, the partially open guest room was an eight-hundred-pound gorilla, taunting her, tempting her to take just a quick look at the six-foot-two man inhabiting her Ikea spare bed, but she somehow resisted. God, she really needed to get out of the apartment before Sarge woke up. For whatever reason, he seemed determined to throw her off-balance, and her game was already knocked askew this morning.

Jasmine tiptoed to the apartment’s front door and made an absent grab for her keys on the console table—and came up empty. The lining of her stomach burned hot when she remembered where she’d left them. Yesterday, while getting ready for her date, she’d swapped her regular purse for the clutch she stored in the guest room closet. Her car keys—along with the multitude of spare keys to her parents’ house and River’s—were still inside, as they hadn’t fit inside the tiny clutch. If she wanted to make it to work on time—and there was no choice if she didn’t want her pay docked—she’d have to venture into the spare room to retrieve the damn keys.

“Shit.” Jasmine walked in a circle. “Shit.”

She took a bracing breath. This was no big deal. She’d just walk inside, grab the purse, and mosey on out. Ignoring the startlingly magnetic rock star in her bed might be difficult, but she worked an assembly line for eight grueling hours a day. This would be gravy.

“You got this, girl,” she murmured, walking on the balls of her feet toward the guest room. Not wanting to chance the door creaking, she slipped in sideways through the opening, attempting to keep her eyes on the prize, also known as the purse on the bedside table. One step, two—

Sarge muttered something in his sleep and turned over on the bed. Everything south of Jasmine’s breastbone tugged. Don’t look…don’t look…

She looked. And her chin fell.

Sarge took up the entire queen-size bed, one foot dangling off the end, the other raised higher, thanks to his bent right leg having fallen open, pointing away from Jasmine. Oh no. He was…completely and dangerously naked, nary a sheet to cover him as they’d all been kicked to the farthest reaches of the bed. Just all of him out there for the world to see, if the world were capable of sitting inside her tiny apartment. And sweet mother of heaven, he was a revelation. It wasn’t just his overall big, rugged, sleeping-bear vibe that turned her ovaries into a funnel cloud. It wasn’t his sturdy, muscular thighs, his tattoo-wrapped biceps, or his egg carton stomach, either. That would have been quite enough to keep her in fantasy material for years.