Free Last Call (Cocktail #5) by Alice Clayton Page A

kisses.
    “How does my ring look upside down?” I teased, holding my hand out in front of me to gaze at it once more.
    “Sexy.” Kiss. “Impossibly sexy.” Kiss. Kiss. “Ludicrously sexy.” Kiss. Grope. Grope.
    “Ludicrously sexy?” I asked, my eyes fluttering shut as his fingertips danced inside the edge of my bra.
    “It’s a word.”
    “So is howfastcanyoubenotsodressed?”
    “That’s . . . let’s see . . . one, two, three—”
    “You’re counting?”
    “—four, five—”
    “Simon?”
    “Hmm?”
    “You should stop the counting and go back to touching.”
    “Oh. Babe. I’m getting back to it.”
    And he really just was. His hands were sure, specific, practiced on my body. We’d been together longenough to know what each other liked, and what each other loved. The night before was full of love and passion. Tonight? Would be full of frantic, frenzied, crazy stupid, straight-up fucking.
    His hands went from sure and specific to wild and wanton in an instant, pulling me out of the chair suddenly and spinning me suddenly, tugging at my shirt hard enough that the buttons popped. He pressed me into the wall, my face turned slightly, cheek into the herringbone wallpaper I’d agonized over, but never examined this close up. “Oh,” was all I managed to get out as his mouth closed around the tendon on the right side of my neck, nipping and tugging as he snapped my pants open and guided them roughly down my thighs.
    “Off. Take them off. Take everything off,” he said, his voice guttural in my ear, his hands placed on my body, one at my throat and one on my hip. This is why I’d never get tired of Simon. He could go from loving to crazed in an instant, always able to surprise me, keep things interesting. “Off,” he reminded me, pulling me out of my head and back into the present. Where I could feel him, hard and insistent, pressing against my backside.
    I slipped my jeans down, pushing my panties along with them. I must have been going too slowly, because he suddenly yanked them the rest of the way down, pushing me harder against the wall. I loved sweet and slow Wallbanger, but I loved Wallbanger Wallbanger the best!
    With one hand in the center of my back and the other twisted into my hair, he pressed me against the wall, down and out, angling my hips back toward him. I heard his belt unbuckle, then the unzipping, and then I could feel him ready. Always ready. The hand on my back now slipped down to my hips, anchoring me as he shoved my legs farther apart. I gasped as I felt him, exactly where I needed him to be.
    “Tell me you want this, you want me,” he breathed, heavy in my ear.
    “Jesus Christ, Simon, of course I do,” I panted as his hand left my hip and traveled to my breast, twisting and turning, pinching sharply and making me gasp once more.
    “Tell me you want this,” he said again, accenting his words with a final tug, making me arch into him even more, my hips searching for his.
    “Yes, Simon! I want this, I want you,” I cried out, frantic now for the feel of him inside me. “I always want you.”
    With one hand still tangled in my hair, keeping me against the wall, his other hand now dipped below, finding me slick and hot and ready for him by his words alone. He groaned at the feel of me on his fingers, and then let out the sexiest groan as he sank inside, inch by perfect inch. I reached back with my hands, trying to bring him closer, to get him further inside, but he placed my hands back on the wall, pulling my hips out farther.
    “Look at you—Jesus, just look at you,” he moaned, pulling out almost all the way and then slamming inside almost instantly, bowing my back and making me gasp. “So hot like this, you’re so sexy . . .”
    “When you’re fucking me?” I asked, blinking innocently over my shoulder. Which he then bit down on . . . hard. Then he pulled out. Which I barely had time to process, because the next thing I knew he was on the floor