Crashed Out (Made in Jersey, #1)(36)

With a muttered curse, Jasmine swiped the screen of her phone and pulled up the video application, hitting play on the last recorded option before her nerve deserted her.

Jasmine almost dropped the device as a loud moan emerged from the speaker, but she quickly lowered the volume, relieved when no one seemed to notice. And then there was only Sarge, tongue flicking against her most private flesh, his big hands holding her thighs open as he watched her. His blue eyes were glazed as if he’d just smoked opium, mouth working, working. From the angle she’d held the phone, the erection hanging between his legs was visible…and that was what drew her attention, even more than his masterful mouth. She wasn’t in the mood for foreplay. No. Being filled was all that mattered.

It was only when Sarge’s name appeared on her vibrating phone and she answered that Jasmine realized her whole body was shaking. “Where?” she breathed.

Sarge sounded like a dying man when he responded. “Side entrance, baby. Hurry.”

Jasmine took a moment to make sure no one was watching before speed-walking along the factory’s perimeter and slipping around the corner. Sarge paced in the alleyway, his hair a total mess. When he saw her, the growl that emerged from his mouth made her loins tighten like belt. They met in a tangle of limbs, mouths devouring in wet slides of tongue and bumping teeth, Sarge’s hands unzipping her jacket to get their bodies flush. Reason deserted Jasmine. She didn’t care how Sarge got their lower bodies locked together, so long as it was now. Now. As their mouths mated in a frantic dance, she could see the video from her phone. His worshipping mouth, his forceful hands, the way he’d reached down to wrap a fist around his arousal every time she moaned his name.

Sarge broke the kiss. “Inside. Have to get inside.” He cupped her breasts, lifted and kneaded. “Much as I’d like everyone to know I’m the one making you this goddamn hot, I’d have to beat them off you with a stick afterward.” Dipping his head, he nipped at the tips of her breasts in turn. “And I want this all to myself. I want to guard you and feed you and f*ck you.”

Did that send another shot of liquid slicking down to her core? God, yes. She was dying a slow death, the longer it took to get Sarge inside her. But nothing could stop those insecurities from rearing their ugly heads. They were always present, just waiting for an opening to sing their solo. “You want this so bad?” Her laughter was half breathless, half skeptical, maybe a little sad. “You can still see the outline of my goggles.”

His disbelief was capped with annoyance when he pulled away, wedging her face between his hands. “You listen to me, I’ve been to twenty-nine countries and stared out at millions of faces, and…” He ran frustrated blue eyes over her face. “No one’s lip turns up the way yours does. No one’s chin is as stubborn as yours while still being so stupid cute. No one looks like they can keep all my secrets. Or be the reason for all my secrets. They only built one of you. So no more. I’m shutting that shit down right now.”

Sarge gripped her shoulders and backed her toward the side entrance, reaching around her hip to pry the door open. They were ensconced in darkness, his intensity boring down on her, shredding her up inside as the door slammed. An overhead grate allowed thin slits of sunlight into the silent machine room, giving her shifting views of harsh planes of his face, the heat in his eyes, as her back met a concrete wall. “Sarge—”

He cut her off with his seeking mouth, kissing her until air became necessary to staying conscious, determined hands working the fly of her jeans. “You.” His forehead bumped into hers. “You don’t make jokes about how bad I need you. Feeling like I might die without you wrapped around me isn’t funny.”

“I’m sorry,” Jasmine breathed, meaning it. How could she not mean it when his voice shook, when his words were slamming into her chest like unruly bumper cars? The situation was getting away from her, the morning’s resolve nothing but a distant echo. There wasn’t a precipice in sight she could hold on to to pull her out of the quicksand. “I didn’t mean to make fun. It’s just…the way you’re making me behave.” Something about the near-darkness sent honesty tumbling out. “I’ve never had trouble putting the brakes on before. The first time shouldn’t happen when I’m thirty, right? I shouldn’t…I shouldn’t…”

“What?” The word emerged like an expletive against her ear. “You shouldn’t want a man who walked around all morning feeling sick? For passing up a chance to bang your sweetness up against the kitchen counter?” He dragged the jacket off her shoulders, letting it drop to the floor with a whoosh, before planting his hands over her head. “I’m sick as f*ck, Jasmine. Cure me.”

This is what it feels like to be craved. Beyond reason. Beyond anything in her experience. His pain called to an untapped facet of her womanhood and dug in, knitting loose ends together. There was a thrill that came with knowing you’d caused a man’s desperation and you were the only one who could fix it. The only one capable of negating his aches by driving them higher, higher, before letting him down. Sarge had started a boil this morning by denying her the chance to reciprocate the pleasure he’d given. Now the boil rollicked and bubbled over her edges, sizzling down her sides, rousing the dormant seductress housed inside her.

Jasmine hooked a finger in Sarge’s belt loop and tugged his hips forward, smiling when his breath rushed out in the form of her name. Jasmine. “When I was watching the video?”