Page 73 of Crash Course

“Fuck. I’ve been trying so fucking hard not to do it.” His words vibrate against my lips.

“What?” I manage.

He pulls back only a millimeter, his breath rough. “This.”

He groans the syllable, claiming my mouth again like he’s punishing me for his lack of restraint.

A breath shudders out of me—half disbelief, half surrender. Jameson’s the most in-control person I know. Nothing makes him act without his permission.

Which is why this feels so surreal.

“The feeling,” I pant against his mouth, “is not even a little mutual.”

I press up on my toes and kiss him back. I’m delighting in the discovery that Jameson Ashford is reeling as hard as I am.

Possibly harder.

He reaches the hem of my dress, his fingers pressing into my bare skin.

I pull him off-balance and he follows me back against the wall. My shoulders bump the concrete, stealing my breath.

I’m mindless. The only thing that matters is skin and want and all the places we can’t get close enough.

“This is a terrible idea, Townie.”

He’s desperate as his hands find my ass, then my thighs to hitch me up so I can wrap my legs around his hips.

“The worst,” I agree.

He bites my lip, hard enough it hurts. We’re back against the balcony rail now, his mouth traveling down my throat. He tugs the strap off my shoulder and resumes his path. It’s scorching fire, that trail he’s burning along my skin.

Whatever this is, it’s more than envy or jealousy. He’s the storm I craved, the one that tears through my life and leaves nowhere to hide.

A loud explosion makes me jump. I grip the collar of his shirt as red and gold streaks explode over the city beyond the balcony.

“You like fireworks?” he teases, breathless.

I glare but the effect is probably blunted by my greedy hands in his hair, my fingers under his shirt digging into the muscles of his back. “Everyone does.”

Nothing could tear me away from this moment, but he turns me anyway, facing me toward the balcony.

His arm bands around my waist and his other hand slips under my dress. I’m pressed against him, my arm gripping his. I feel his hard body at my back, his breath near my ear.

It’s like when we were on the motorcycle, only this time, I’m in front.

His touch skims up my thigh, inching inward. “This fucking dress.”

“Useless. Can’t even ride a bike in it,” I manage.

“Not what I’m picturing you riding,” he mutters, yanking it out of the way.

There’s an entire world spread out in front of us, one I thought I wanted, but mine is reduced to his fingers when they brush between my legs. Pleasure shimmers through me.

My stomach trembles, my hips arching against him.

Jameson’s teasing brushes turn into strokes where I’m already aching.

Then he presses a finger inside me.