Total pages in book: 162
Estimated words: 154728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 619(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 154728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 619(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
The thump of the bass still sounded once we made it to the back where the restrooms were, but it was quieter.
Before I could even wonder what was happening, Kane pushed me against the wall and plastered my body with his, grasping my neck and putting his mouth on mine. He tasted like beer and him. His kiss was hungry. Ravenous. I didn’t hesitate to return it. I realized I was hungry, ravenous, too.
Time unraveled as we kissed, his hand in my hair, running down the side of my body, underneath my tee and to my breasts, kneading, tweaking my nipples.
“Need to fuck you, Chef,” he breathed against my ear. “Can take you home, to the bathroom, or we can do it right here, against the wall.” There was a challenge in his voice, a sexual dare.
I knew that Kane would never try to convince me to do something I wasn’t comfortable with and wouldn’t say anything if I requested he take me home, to privacy, to the familiarity of my bed.
The corner we were in was somewhat secluded from the main bar, the hall to the restrooms to the left, presumably a storeroom to our right. But to enter either, you had to walk past us.
Anyone could walk past. See us. At least the bathrooms offered an ounce of privacy. Not exactly sensible but more sensible than an open hallway.
“Here,” I whispered, barely recognizing my voice, my request.
Kane’s teeth grazed my ear. Without pausing, he turned me around, my palms instinctively bracing themselves against the wall.
His hands pulled back my hips, before he kicked at my ankles, telling me to spread my legs apart. Fingers rushed to my jeans, undoing them quickly, roughly, with urgency.
I was already soaking when his hands went to my panties, caressing me there.
My body responded so viscerally to the simple touch, my knees shuddered.
The thump of the music vibrated against my palms, my heart thundering in my chest.
Anyone could walk by at any moment. Yes, the light was dim, the hour was late and whoever did walk by was likely sporting some heavy beer goggles. But we were still playing with fire.
That only made me burn hotter.
“Never had better pussy than yours,” Kane murmured against my ear, fingers going inside me for a few seconds before they were gone and my jeans were around my ankles.
He shifted my hips, placing me in the perfect position for him. He didn’t ease in, didn’t bother with foreplay. There was no time for that. This wasn’t careful, tender. This was hunger, getting our needs met knowing we could be interrupted, caught, at any moment.
I let out a cry as he filled me.
Though it hopefully merged with the music, I was louder than I’d expected.
Kane’s hand went to my mouth, lightly covering it so he wasn’t completely silencing me.
He pounded hard, relentlessly, hot breath against my neck.
My body met each of his thrusts, building up to an impossible crescendo.
I tasted the beer on my tongue, I breathed in the heady smells of the bar, of Kane’s scent mixed in with them. I let myself go, awash in sensation.
Kane was a wild animal, slamming into me.
Then I was gone, flying through the air, riding a wave of complete pleasure. In the hallway of a dive bar, with Kane fucking me against a wall, I felt myself fall.
For Kane.
Eight
After a dizzying ride through the city, our bodies still sticky with the sweat from earlier—the mere thought of what I’d done made my toes curl—we were tangled up in my bed, on our sides, facing each other.
I would have usually showered after coming home, to get the heat of the kitchen off me, the specific scent of it. But now it was mixed with Kane, me, us. I wanted to imprint that into my sheets.
Though it was so late it could be classed as ‘early,’ I still wasn’t ready to sleep. I was ready to dive deeper into this. Into Kane.
“Why do you do this?” I asked, tracing the scars on his body, a roadmap of the injuries, the evidence of his brushes with death. The scar on his lip—from hitting a half pipe the wrong way when training for the Winter Olympics in New Zealand. The jagged mark on his bicep—from tearing layers of skin almost down to the bone when he hit the concrete while riding BMX.
Though I couldn’t see it, I knew there was an ugly mar on his calf from almost being torn to pieces when his dirt bike landed on him after coming down wrong.
The scars made up a story of what he’d survived, sure. But they also taunted me with the fact that he danced with death for a living.
I’d only known him for a short time, but the idea of this earth spinning without Kane Rhodes walking on it made my skin prickle with sheer panic.