Crashed Out (Made in Jersey, #1)(14)

Jesus, had she really said that out loud? It ceased to matter amid their mutual heavy breathing, the sound of her backside sliding on the seat as she worked up and down his fingers.

Something told her the noises falling from Sarge’s mouth would ring in her head for days. Broken, desperate growls, interrupted by rushed pulls of air. Like he was drowning, just like her. “You did see it, didn’t you, baby? Saw me all fat and dying to come? I spent the night listening to your tight body roll around on that creaky bed. You’ve never heard it creak the way it will if I convince you to f*ck me.” His thumb went into overdrive on her clit, fast and relentless. “But don’t worry, baby. I promise no one will hear it over you screaming to get me deeper.”

Her bucking hips twisted on his final word, sending a multitude of sensations firing through her blood, seizing her muscles in a locked position to let the pleasure dance on the mountaintop. She wanted to get away, she wanted to get closer, her body didn’t know what to do, how to handle the shaking relief. There was even a hint of frustration that she’d only ever been halfway to completion until now, never having been propelled to such a level of fulfilled lust, but it drifted away when she started to come down. It didn’t happen all at once, but in softening degrees.

When an iota of mental consciousness became possible, Jasmine heard her own voice repeating “yes, yes, yes,” on a throaty loop. Felt Sarge’s tongue raking up and down the side of her neck, his teeth taking small bites from her shoulder.

Jasmine no longer kept her eyes closed as a defense mechanism, but because she didn’t have the strength to lift her lids. Something jabbed in her throat when she felt Sarge—now kissing across her shoulder—tug her panties back into place and zip her jeans.

“I’m not going to sit here waiting for some big talk to f*ck everything up,” he gritted out, arousal thick in his tone. “I’m going to go back inside. I’m going to use the same hand that just made you come to jerk myself off. So damn hard. And later? Later, I’m going to hope you come home wanting the real thing from me.” He took her hand and squeezed it around what could only be his denim-covered erection. “Baby, we both know the real thing is what I’ve got.”

“You’re so arrogant now,” she whispered on a huffed breath, unable to put the required exasperation in her voice.

“No, I’m not. I’m overcompensating for the fear that you’re going to take one orgasm and run.” He sounded almost angry. “You should know I’m going to make doing that really hard for you.”

God, why wouldn’t her heart stop slamming against her ribs? “Somehow I already knew that.”

“Good. Maybe you’re finally paying attention where I’m concerned.” When his mouth settled at the corner of Jasmine’s mouth, she startled, and Sarge sighed. “Be safe at work, will you?”

“Okay,” she murmured as he left the car, the door closing with a firm click behind his retreating form.

Holy shit. Something told her safety wasn’t a concern at work this week. The hazards started and ended with the big compelling man crashing out in her home.





Chapter Five


For once, Sarge was actually grateful that Lita needed to be bailed out. The Old News drummer had wasted no time since returning from tour to raise some hell, being tossed into Manhattan Central Booking her first night back on a drunk and disorderly charge. While her one phone call should have been to James, Lita had called Sarge’s cell phone instead. But if Sarge knew Lita—and you didn’t spend years with someone on a tour bus without seeing their worst—she’d called Sarge with the express purpose of getting a rise out of their manager.

Sarge, however, didn’t have the desire to go a round with James by not alerting him to Lita’s latest antics, so there he stood, after an hour on the train. Outside Central Booking, waiting for James to show up and bail out Lita.

Again.

From his vantage point, he could see three separate Santa Clauses ringing bells for donations to the Salvation Army and wondered why they couldn’t at least attempt to appear like the real deal, finding their own damn blocks to work.

Taking potshots at charities now, are we? God, he was in a shitty mood. The back of Sarge’s neck itched; his winter clothes felt too tight. Sweat pooled at the base of his spine, even though the temperature sat squarely at thirty-five degrees. And while he wanted Lita’s latest stunt to be the reason for his irritable state, it had more to do with her calling from jail before he could…relieve himself this morning.

Honestly, he should be dead by now. Killed off from an unusual case of purple testicles. He’d slammed back into Jasmine’s apartment, all but salivating with the need to take out his villainous erection and stroke it to the memory of Jasmine’s sexy waist shuddering as she climaxed for his fingers…and his phone had rung. If he hadn’t had one fist propped on the entry table while he unzipped his jeans with the opposite hand, he wouldn’t even have seen Central Booking pop up on the screen of his phone, where he’d left it by the door. But he had. And he’d known if he missed the call, his pain-in-the-ass bandmate would be shit out of luck.

So with an agonized shout at the ceiling, he’d abandoned his quest for self-love and answered.

Now? He couldn’t blink without his dick getting hard.