Hook Shot (Hoops #3)(75)

“Jesus, Lotus.” His handsome features twisting with agonizing pleasure, he caresses my jaw as it works around him.

The first warm spurt coats my tongue and the roof of my mouth, and rushes down my throat. I moan at the taste of him. Voracious, I hollow my cheeks to milk him of every drop. When the stream finally stops, I lick from the base to the tip, gathering all of him that I can. Saving the taste, savoring him. When I’ve licked him clean, I crawl up his chest and tuck myself into the crook of his arm, my ear pressed to his heart seeking its reassuring thump. His fingers sift through my hair, and one large finger traces the blossoming zipper tattooed up my spine.

We lie there for a long time, heedless of the fact that the marble floor of his foyer is cold and hard. Heedless of the messy stickiness we coaxed from each other’s bodies. It’s quiet, except for our slow, calming breaths filling the air. Our bodies are teaching us the scope of true intimacy. It’s another’s pleasure over yours. It’s hunger unique to one other person—satisfied only by him. Only by her.

“That was . . .” Kenan’s words fail, trail away, but I don’t need them.

I touch his ridged torso and sprinkle kisses over his chest.

“I know,” I whisper, my eyes wet with emotion. “I know.”





27





Kenan





The events of last night, after we gorged on each other in the foyer, are murky. We were both exhausted. I picked Lotus up in her skirt and top, leaving her purse, panties, shoes, and my jeans right at the door. We barely made it to the bed, collapsing in the center and falling asleep almost right away. I wake with her back spooned to my chest, and her soft roundness hardens my cock even beyond the typical morning wood.

“Someone’s happy to see me this morning,” Lotus says, her voice husky with sleep and, I hope, arousal. She turns to face me and slides one slim, toned thigh between my legs. My arms tighten around her, and I wish we could wake this way every morning. Is it too soon to think like this? To start exploring scenarios where we can be like this, together, all the time?

“I am very happy to see you,” I murmur into the velvety sweep of her neck. “I want to see you all day. Is that possible?”

“All day?” She lifts her head and props herself on her elbow to peer down at me. “It’s a Sunday, but JP still may need something being this close to the show. Can I check with him before we make plans?”

“Sure.” I’m distracted, dotting her jaw with kisses and rubbing her thigh beneath the tulle skirt. I roam higher and find the firm, naked curve of her ass. We look into each other’s eyes, and last night’s memories, the fiery moments, resurge between us.

“I didn’t get to really see you,” I tell her, my voice deep, scraping bottom with desire. I find the tiny button at the back of her skirt. “Let me look at you. We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

She shifts to make it easier for me to get the skirt off. With her panties in the foyer, I have an uninterrupted view of shapely, copper-toned legs, subtly curved hips, and a plump, bare pussy.

Grooming goes a long way.

I tug at the hem of her shirt, wanting to see her breasts, the bar that pierces one of her nipples. The shirt is almost over her head when she starts to struggle, to pull away.

“Kenan, no,” she says, her voice pitched high.

“Baby, it’s okay. I’ll stop,” I start reassuring her, but lose track of my thoughts when I see dark bruises on her upper arms.

“Kenan,” she whispers, completely naked in my bed, her eyes wide and worried. “I can ex—”

“Who?” I cut in, slamming my teeth together to contain my fury. “Who did this? How did you get these?”

“It’s noth . . . it’s nothing,” she says. “Let it go.”

“Tell me right now who put their hands on you,” I clip out. “Do not lie to me.”

“Kenan, you’re making a big deal out of—”

“Dammit, Lotus.”

“Okay. It was Chase,” she says in a rush. “Geez. It was Chase, but he didn’t mean to. He just grabbed me rougher than he—”

“Chase grabbed you when you went to confront him? You said you handled it, and that he didn’t give you any trouble.”

“I did and he didn’t,” she says, sounding slightly defensive. “I was fine on my own.”

“These,” I say, lightly touching the dark marks on her arms, “say otherwise.”

“Please don’t blow this up into a thing.” She rubs her eyes and releases a frustrated breath. “I can take care of myself. I kneed him in the balls and threatened legal action. It’s done.”

“Why’d you have to knee him in the balls?” I ask, my voice low and my frustration high. “What’d he do?”

She blinks at me, her gaze opaque, giving nothing away.

“Look,” she finally says. “Kenya told me you overreacted at the gallery.”

“No, I didn’t.”

She levels a wry look at me. “If it was anything like how you acted when you came to the studio . . .”

She leaves the rest unsaid, leaves me to replay it all in my head. Kenya did have to say I had PTSD to keep me from getting sued or arrested.