Boomerang (33 page)

“You, Curls. You’re the occasion.”

I wonder if it sounds like a line to her, but I mean it. I’ve only known her a few hours, but she’s eclipsed everything else in my world. This girl with her green eyes, her wild hair, and her gorgeous smile is amazing. Funny and smart and hot. Christ, she’s hot. She is absolutely worth celebrating.

Mia’s smile widens. “Curls, huh?”

I step toward her and reach up, twirling a strand of soft hair around my finger. “It suits you.”

Mia leans into my touch, resting her cheek against my hand, and I flash back to the cab ride here. My fingers had been buried in her hair, and she’d been halfway on my lap. We’re combustible together, every time I touch her I want more. I want her now, right now, but there’s no need to rush. I lean in and kiss her lips quickly, then duck into the refrigerator for the bottle of champagne Jason stashed in there a few weeks ago.

“You just happen to have bottles of Cristal waiting around for moments like this?”

I grin and shake my head. “My roommate, who showed up at the bar?” I unwrap the foil top and toss it in the sink, then slowly twist the cork to let pressure out of the bottle. “He just started his second year of med school, so his parents sent this to him. It’s something they do every—”

The cork slams into my palm, jerking my hand up. Champagne shoots from the bottle, arcing into the air, and dousing Mia. She lets out a squeak and lurches off the counter, curling her back like a startled cat.

“Whoops,” I say, trying not to laugh.

Her blue dress has a dark splatter line from hip to shoulder where the material is soaked. She pushes a dripping curl away from her face and straightens her back. Then she runs her tongue over her lower lip. “Tastes pretty good, actually.”

It’s the sexiest damn thing I’ve ever seen, and I have to clear my throat to find my voice. “I can’t say I’m sorry that happened.”

“You don’t seem sorry. . . . but you will be.” She lifts the bottle from my hand. “Let’s see how you like it.” She gives the bottle a shake my way.

Champagne spills onto my shirt, a cool, liquid lash against my chest that I barely feel. It’s like my body has one setting. Like it’s suddenly programmed to only feel her.

“Wasn’t that bad.” I take the bottle back and step forward. “There’s something I should probably tell you about me,” I say.

She steps back, retreating, but I keep going until I have her cornered against the counter. “I’m highly competitive. And I always finish what I start.”

“That’s actually two thi—”

Mia gasps, swallowing the rest of her words as I tip the bottle over her—over us, since we’re pressed together.

Her hands shoot up, bracing my chest as she sucks in a breath, but she doesn’t stop me as I soak every inch of her.

When the bottle is empty, I set it on the counter. “There.”

The only sound is the champagne dripping onto the floor and Mia’s quick little breaths. I don’t know where to look first. Her face is priceless, her green eyes bright. Almost glowing with shock. The curves of her body are perfectly outlined by her clinging dress, and I want to high-five myself because she’s fucking beautiful this way, shivering and wet and holding onto me like she’ll fly away if she lets go.

“Well, then,” she says finally. “We’re all wet.”

I can’t resist her anymore. I catch a glimpse of her eyes widening in surprise just before I kiss her. I want to take my time, but it’s like holding back a tidal wave. I kiss her hard, my tongue sliding against hers, her taste cool and sweet from the champagne. She makes a small needy sound and tilts her head up, giving me a better angle, giving me exactly what I wanted, like we’re connected in some primitive way, our bodies fluent in their own language.

Some part of me knows we’re drunk, both of us, but that this is real. How could it not be?

Dipping my head, I take the soft part of her ear between my teeth, pressing a gentle bite there. “You’re so sweet, Mia. So hot.”

She reacts urgently to my words, framing my face with her hands and guiding my mouth back to hers. Her body presses against me and I’m instantly hard, fighting the urge to drive into her right now.

When have I ever wanted a girl this much? Have I ever?

“You taste incredible,” I say, sucking the champagne off her warm skin. I work my way down to her collarbone, and then to her breasts. She’s soft, the weight and shape of her so fucking perfect. I can’t push her dress and bra aside enough, so I suck through the wet layers and feel her nipple tighten into a bud beneath my tongue.

“Ethan . . .” Mia grips my hair and arches her back. “That’s amazing.”

“It’s going to get better.” I glance up. Her eyes are unfocused and heavy with desire. Seeing her that way only makes me want her more. She’s like liquid fire under my hands, so responsive. “But you know what’s getting in our way, Curls?” I smooth my hand down her hip and over her thigh, finding the hem of the wet fabric. “Your dress.”

Chapter 43

Mia

Q: When was your last truly memorable night?

I
fall onto my bed, drunk and spinning, trying to fix on the bright double squares of my bedroom window, which Sky’s opened so I can get some fresh air. I taste the night on my tongue—that metallic tang, like pennies, that comes right before rain. The breeze is cool and shivery and flutters along my sheet like fingers, so light, touching every bit of me.

Of course I think of Ethan, wishing for
his
fingers,
his
lips.

Remembering.

“But you know what’s getting in our way, Curls?” he says, and his hands travel along my body like he’s taking the measure of me, like he’s sculpting me to life there in his dimly lit galley kitchen. “Your dress.”

He turns me around and nudges me toward the refrigerator.

“What are you doing?” I ask, but I don’t care, not really. I just know I want him, want to taste him again, his tongue warm and darting in my mouth, his body pressed against me again, firm and powerful and radiating with desire.

“Zipper,” he says, bending close to my ear.

I put my hands against the cool surface, and it feels so good. I should be chilled, drenched in champagne—I remember now—but I’m feverish, floating, wanting his hands on me to keep me rooted.

The zipper gently scrapes my flesh, and I feel his closeness like a palpable force, keeping me there. The soft fabric of my dress brushes against my legs, traveling over my upper thighs, my belly, my breasts, until I’m free of it, and it disappears in the shadows like it never existed.

His hands come around me and caress the sheer wet fabric of my bra, closing over my breasts with just the right firmness, everything exactly the way I like it.

And the way I realize it’s never been before, never perfect like this.

He thumbs my nipples, squeezes them, then pushes my hair out of the way so his lips can touch my shoulder, my neck, his teeth grazing me, tongue warm against my skin.

“That’s not fair,” I protest.

“What’s not?”

“You’re still dressed.”

He laughs. “For now.” His mouth against my ear, he says, “You taste like champagne. Jesus, I want more of that.”

Not as much as I want you, I think and push back against him, needing the feel of his body again. It’s more than just a perfect physical match, more than just him knowing how to touch me. It’s this feeling of being perfectly free to express every part of me, especially my longing for him.

I move my hand off the refrigerator, needing to touch him, but he traps my hand and returns it to the cool stainless steel.

“I’m right here,” he tells me, and presses against me, hard against the small of my back. “Don’t move. Stay just like that.”

His arm comes around me again, wrapping around my waist. He bends me forward just a little, pushes a leg between my legs so that I feel his rock-hard thigh, the rough texture of his jeans pushed up against me. I groan and rest my face against my arm, feeling the stickiness of the champagne, the cool vibration of the refrigerator.

Ethan spreads my legs apart, and his other hand slides beneath the lace waistband of my panties, slipping down to rest against me, against the pulsing warm center of my body.

And then I can’t think. I can only feel. The brush of his fingers against me. Over and over. Perfect. So absolutely perfect. His lips on my back, my neck, his arm tight across my waist. I move against him, my body seeking his touch, my legs trembling from the impossibility of staying upright while his hand moves against me, while I move against his hand.

“Fuck,” he groans, and the sound of his voice makes me weak, makes me wish that stainless steel weren’t so goddamn slippery. “You feel good. So fucking good.”

He holds me hard against his body, his fingers coaxing me, making my breath come faster, making my whole body tremble.

I can’t stand how good it feels, like a miniature sun is burning inside me, radiating through my every cell. Like I’m about to go supernova.

And then I do.

He slips a finger inside me, and heat rushes through every part of me, the delicious intense pulse of it almost knocking me off my feet. It rolls through me in wave after wave, sharp and overpowering, almost painful but the opposite of pain. My body can’t stop moving against his fingers. Every part of me craves more, and I’m drenched in this place of dizzying, gorgeous surrender.

“Holy shit.” I want to kiss my own hand in gratitude for being part of my body, with blood and nerves and skin. I’m only upright because he’s holding me upright, because I only exist where I connect with his powerful arm, his skilled, beautiful touch.