Fly With Me (Wild Aces #1)(33)

Easy smiled, and without the smirk, he appeared a little more approachable. “Yeah, he is.”

I searched for something else to talk about, but came up short. I figured it wasn’t great if I alienated the best friend, but for some reason I couldn’t relax around him. And I couldn’t tell if he approved of me or not. There was something shrewd in his gaze that gave the impression that his devil-may-care attitude was more show than anything else.

Yeah, the verdict was definitely still out on Easy.

“He likes you a lot.”

I opened my mouth to speak—no clue what I was going to say—and then we were interrupted by Noah walking back in the room, wearing jeans and a T-shirt.

He shot Easy a look that made me wonder if he’d heard our conversation—so awkward—and then he was back on the couch next to me, tucking my body against him.

We sat there for a few more minutes, half watching the movie Easy had playing, half chatting, and then Noah leaned down and whispered in my ear.

“Do you want to go to bed?”

I nodded, not sure I trusted my voice to speak.

Easy gave us a knowing grin that had my cheeks flaming again—f*cker.

Noah pulled me up from the couch, taking my hand and leading me down a hallway with more airplane pictures, which I was beginning to think were some form of guy porn. We passed by a few closed doors, my heart picking up with each step we took.

“I’ll give you the grand tour tomorrow, okay?”

I nodded.

Noah opened a door at the end of the hall, stepping back so I could enter first, and then the door closed behind us, and I was in his arms, my back to his front, his hand sweeping my hair away, his lips grazing the sensitive hollow between my shoulder and my neck.

My head rolled back and the rest of my nerves slid away.



NOAH

I descended on her like a ravenous man presented with his last meal. And if she were food, she’d be a f*cking filet mignon.

The jeans were something beyond hot, showcasing her long legs, hugging her ass. Her tits were high and perky, and I’d been dying to get my hands on her all night. Not to mention the hair, and the heels, and the way she’d strutted through the Oklahoma City airport like she was a f*cking rockstar.

As great as the body was, the attitude was everything.

I was seriously hooked by this girl.

She smelled amazing—her scent different than what I’d remembered in Vegas, but somehow the perfect complement to the bombshell look she had going on.

I was going to f*ck her all night long.

Jordan pushed back against my body, grinding her ass against my cock. I was already hard as a f*cking rock. I groaned, nipping her skin, my tongue following my teeth, the movement tearing a shudder from her body. My hand found the top of her sweater, slipped under the cup of her bra, and then I was squeezing her breast, rolling her nipple between my thumb and forefinger, getting off on the little throaty moans she made, the way her hips arched against me like she was as desperate as I was.

“I can’t go slow now. I’ll go slowly later. Promise.”

I ground out the words, my hands already taking over, tugging at her sweater, pulling it off, cupping her breasts, f*ck me, sliding down the soft skin, down her stomach, until I reached the snap of her jeans, fumbling with the button before dragging the zipper down and slipping my hand inside her thong.

I found her clit, stroking her, once, twice, before going lower, needing to fill her up. I slid a finger inside her, the friction not nearly enough, my cock jerking as she rode my hand. She turned in my arms, attacking my clothes like a woman possessed, sliding down my body, her mouth following the path her hands took.

It all became a haze, sharpened by random sensations—her teeth on my pec, her nails streaking down my back, the rasp of a zipper, the soft thunk of clothes hitting the floor.

Somehow we got naked and then she was bent over the bed, her palms on the comforter, feet on the ground, ass in the air, looking like every fantasy I’d ever had. Hell, I was pretty sure this image would be burned in my brain for eternity.

I grabbed a condom from my jeans’ pocket, tearing open the foil wrapper and sliding it on, my hands shaking with the movement. And then I was sliding inside her, my hands on her hips, pulling her closer while I f*cked her hard.

It felt like forever, and at the same time, like the blink of an eye. There were no words, nothing but the joining of our bodies speaking a frenzied beat. And then she was coming, and I was coming, and our bodies collapsed in a heap on the bed, and I knew without question that she had ruined me for all other women.





ELEVEN




JORDAN

It was ridiculously ironic that when I was twenty, my body was capable of sexual acrobatics, only to be relegated to partners who came after a minute and whose repertoire didn’t extend past missionary. Now that I was thirty, I’d found a man whose art was f*cking, and of course, my body felt like it had been run over by a truck. Twice.

I’d possibly done something to my back. And there was a kink I couldn’t work out of my neck no matter how hard I tried. And I was hobbling. Sort of. If you looked up the phrase “Rode hard and put up wet,” you’d see a picture of my wincing face, my torso slightly hunched over to take some of the pressure off my aching back.

Death by orgasms.

It was the kind of thing I normally would have found hilarious, except I was beginning to realize there was nothing funny about sex injuries. And I probably needed to haul my ass to a gym.