Page 85 of The Naughty Ex

I want the record to show that I crossed over to him.

Nobody made me. I wasn’t drunk—I’d been upstairs sobering up for the better part of an hour, which is precisely why I came back down. He stood as I got close, and started to say something.

"Hush," I said, and took his face in both hands and kissed him.

Gregory made a sound against my mouth like he’d been hit. A sharp, broken thing, half-gasp, half-groan. His lips were warm, softer than I remembered, and he tasted like red wine and sugar—like the wedding cake we’d destroyed.

"Blaine—"

"Don’t." I pulled back just enough to see his face. His eyes were wide, pupils blown, lips parted. "I have been sensible my entire life. People compliment me on it. I want you to understand that I am fully aware of what day this is, what I did this afternoon, and exactly how this looks." My voice wasn’t steady. "I’ve decided today is mine, and I don’t give a damn."

"Blaine—"

"I have never once asked you for anything," I said. "I’m asking for this."

And Gregory stared at me—one more second, something rising behind his face, stalling there—and then his hands came up into my hair, fingers tangling, pulling just hard enough to make my breath catch. There was nothing left to argue about.

He backed me into a tent pole. The metal was cold through my shirt, a stark contrast to the heat of his body pressing against mine. His hands slid down to my waist, gripping hard enough to leave marks. I arched into him, my hips rolling forward without thought.

"Give me a minute," he breathed, his voice cracking.

"Gregory, please, I want you to—"

"Blaine, I sold my boat to be here." He grinned, sudden and sharp, and there was a blob of frosting clinging to his left earlobe.

I laughed. I hadn’t meant to, but the sound tore out of me anyway. Gregory dropped his forehead to my shoulder, his body shaking with silent laughter, and for a second, it was like no time had passed at all.

Then he stopped laughing, put his mouth on my throat, and I stopped finding anything funny.

His lips were hot, his breath ragged against my skin. He kissed a slow, burning path up to my jaw, then back down to the hollow of my throat, his teeth grazing just hard enough to make me gasp. His hands found my waist, fingers digging into the denim—his denim—and he pulled me flush against him. The contact sent a jolt through me, sharp and electric.

He made a sound low in his throat, something between a growl and a plea, and then his mouth was on mine again. This time, there was no hesitation. His tongue slid against mine, hungry, demanding, and I kissed him back just as hard, my teeth catching his lower lip. My hands went up into his hair, twisting, pulling, and he gasped against my mouth. The sound of it landed in my gut, hot and heavy, and I rolled my hips against his without thinking. He was hard. So was I.

He broke away, breathing ragged, his forehead pressed to mine. "Blaine. We—"

"Don’t." My hands were already at the hem of his shirt. "Don’t overthink it or talk about it."

I dragged the fabric up, and he lifted his arms, letting me pull it off him. The candlelight played across his skin, casting shadows over the lean muscle of his chest, the faint dusting of hair that led down to the waistband of his slacks. He was thinner than I remembered, but no less beautiful. If anything, the two years apart had only sharpened the angles of his body, made him more real in a way that made my throat tighten.

I put my hand flat in the middle of his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart under my palm. His skin was warm, almost feverish, and I could see the pulse jumping in his throat. Glancing down, I saw the outline of his cock straining against his slacks, thick and heavy.

My breath hitched.

I reached for the button of his trousers, my fingers brushing against the heat of him through the fabric. His stomach tensed under my touch, his muscles jumping. "Blaine," he breathed, and my name sounded like a warning and a prayer all at once.

"Be quiet," I murmured, and got the button open.

I slid the zipper down, slow and deliberate, my eyes locked on his. His breath hitched as I hooked my fingers into the waistband of his briefs and pulled them down, freeing him. His cock sprang forward, thick and flushed, the tip already glistening.

I went down on my knees.

Gregory’s breath hitched, and both of his hands flew to my shoulders. "Blaine, you don’t have to—"

"I know what I’m doing," I said, my voice steady despite the way my heart was hammering against my ribs. "Gregory, I’ve thought about this." I looked up at him, my hands sliding up the backs of his thighs. "A great deal."

"How much?" His voice was rough, strained.

Let the record show that for the first time since our divorce, I told him the absolute truth.