I’m going to spend the night with him. And I don’t really care where; one way or another, I’m getting an encore performance in an actual bed.
He holds my gaze the last few yards to the table, not even looking away when he takes the flute of champagne I hand him right as the countdown begins. It’s as if he’s read my mind and mentally agreed, though I know that’s crazy. I’m breathless, barely whispering along to the count, my need to be done with this party so overwhelming I can taste it.
“Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . .” Mason rumbles the words, but they blur together in my mind. I’m only aware of how he crowds a little closer with each one, as if we’re back in that airplane lavatory and there’s nowhere else to go, no more room to move. But nothing about it feels wrong. I want to be closer, to be naked with him, every inch of skin touching, no barriers between us.
His mouth is at my ear, breath hot, tongue grazing my earlobe. “Three . . . two . . .” He brushes his lips along my jaw, feathering them against my own mouth. “One.”
I’m pretty sure I let out an actual whimper when we finally kiss. He’s standing between my knees, one hand on the side of my bare thigh revealed by the slit in my dress. I curl my arms around his neck and hold on as he sweeps his tongue between my lips. He lets out a groan, fingers digging into my thigh, hand sliding higher beneath my dress until it’s splayed around the juncture of my leg and hip, his thumb grazing perilously close to the edge of my panties.
I want him so much I don’t even care how reckless this is, how very public. He curls his fingers, squeezing tighter just as he pulls away, eyes glazed as he stares at my mouth. His lips are parted and he lets out a shuddering breath, then closes his eyes.
“Sweet Jesus,” he mutters, taking a deep breath and reaching for his champagne. He raises it up in a toast. “Happy fucking New Year.”
Nina and Wyatt are still entwined, but manage to peel themselves apart and toast with us. I swallow the bubbly, eyeing Mason over the rim of the glass. He looks at me like he wants to devour me whole, and it sends a wave of pleasure all the way down to my toes.
But it’s nothing compared to the explosion of need when he leans in again and whispers in my ear, “I need to take you upstairs and fuck you. Now.”
18 Callie
Mason keeps his hand against my back the entire ride in the elevator, his fingers lightly grazing my spine. Every stroke sends a fresh spike of arousal straight between my thighs. The only thing keeping me from plastering myself to his body is the presence of Nina and Wyatt, who are showing less restraint. The pair of them are making out like horny teens, Nina’s hands steadily dismantling Wyatt’s picture-perfect look.
Why I feel the need to hold back now, I’m not sure, but I like the buzz of anticipation that builds deep inside me, the slow, steady pulse between my thighs with each hot slide of Mason’s fingertips up my spine. He leans a little closer, sliding his hand farther around my hip and up beneath the fabric of my dress. Then he tilts his head, pressing his lips to the side of my throat as his hand roams higher, grazing bare skin.
My dress’ built-in support gives way to his probing fingers and I gasp when he finds my nipple, caressing it once before grasping the sensitive nub between his thumb and forefinger and pinching gently. He teases me until I can’t see straight, barely aware when the elevator stops and the doors open.
Nina and Wyatt are out the door like a shot. Mason releases me and moves to block the doors, holding out his hand to me. It takes me a moment to reclaim control of my legs, but I put my hand in his and let him lead me down the hall. He swipes a card at a door just as the next door down clicks shut, muffled thumps and moans echoing from behind it. It’s what I’d expect from Nina, and here I am about to take a page from her book.
Before the door even shuts, Mason pins me to the wall of the shadowy entry, his mouth tight against mine, tongue plundering within. With one hand he tugs at the tie at my nape holding up my bodice. The other slides down my side to grab my thigh, hiking it up over his hip. His hard length presses against my core, his pelvis grinding precisely where I’m most sensitive.
I cry out, startled yet again by how good he feels, how every place we make contact burns with the simple pleasure of his touch. The bodice of my dress slips down and he palms my breast, finally releasing my mouth to take me in. He doesn’t give me time to feel self-conscious about my body. He descends on my breast like he’s starving, taking my nipple between his lips and sucking. Then he switches to the other, laving with his tongue until I’m gasping for breath while he drops to his knees, pushing up beneath my skirt to grasp my panties and tear them down my legs.
There’s a bed not five feet from us, but I’m not about to interrupt the momentum we have going. I want it all—whatever he wants to give me. I obey his nudge to lift my foot out of the leg of my panties, but he holds onto my calf, pushing my leg wide and hooking it over his shoulder. The next thing I know he buries his face between my legs, and I’m done. With the
