No. No, she couldn’t be getting increasingly hotter the more he revealed. It was just his hand, just his touch. His wide thumb replaced the grinding heel of his hand, giving her the concentrated pressure she needed to zoom closer to release. “Please, right there. Keep going.”
“You think I could stop? I’d sell my fucking soul to watch you come.” Jasmine’s mouth fell open on a moan when his lips traced over the edge of her bra, his tongue dipping inside and running the length of the material. His breath floated over her, hot and sultry, inspiring goose bumps straight down her body. “Yeah, you were twenty-three when I saw you in those little purple mindfucks.” He sucked her nipple through the cotton bra with a lusty sound before releasing it with a quick lick. “You’ve got some damn nerve being twice as hot now, Jas.”
That statement alone made the breath pause in her throat, tempted her to finally open her eyes and look at Sarge. But she couldn’t—wouldn’t—look at him while her body reached such an unbelievable peak, or she’d be an addict for life. She was at the base of the mountain now, climbing, climbing, racing toward the top, a white-hot clench dropping lower until her hands were clawing at the car door and Sarge’s shoulder to keep her corporeal self on the vinyl seat, while the inner being that existed for pleasure alone lifted and bumped along the car’s ceiling.
Sarge added a second finger inside Jasmine, and her answering whimper sounded like a different woman. Not her. It couldn’t be her. But it was. In that moment, she was a woman who let a man pleasure her inside a car, out in public, and didn’t give a thought to the consequences. The only responsibility resting on her shoulders was to herself. The cataclysmic need funneling around her, inside her, an undeniable force of nature. And God, Jasmine wanted to come for Sarge. Wanted to fulfill his fantasy. Create a new one. Right now, inside this car, it didn’t feel wrong.
Later, it would, but—
Sarge planted the back of his wrist on the inside of her jeans, wedging his hand and holding his fingers at a slant. “Fuck yourself on my fingers. When you’re sliding, riding and bouncing up and down on my dick later, I want to know how those hips look from the side.”
With those heated words driving her higher, Jasmine chanced cracking an eyelid to see Sarge’s head tilt to the right, to get a better view from the side, licking his upper lip as he looked. His gaze was glassy, fevered, that square jaw tighter than she’d ever seen anyone’s. Forcing her eyes back closed before she never wanted to close them again, Jasmine gripped the steering wheel, tweaked her hips back and slid down onto Sarge’s large fingers once again. “Shit,” she breathed. “Feels so good.”
“More,” he demanded, his tone dark and rocky. “More. Take more, but know that I can fill you so much more with what I’ve got in my pants.”
“Y-yes,” she said on a stuttered exhale. “I know…I saw.”
Jesus, had she really said that out loud? It ceased to matter amid their mutual heavy breathing, the sound of her backside sliding on the seat as she worked up and down his fingers.
Something told her the noises falling from Sarge’s mouth would ring in her head for days. Broken, desperate growls, interrupted by rushed pulls of air. Like he was drowning, just like her. “You did see it, didn’t you, baby? Saw me all fat and dying to come? I spent the night listening to your tight body roll around on that creaky bed. You’ve never heard it creak the way it will if I convince you to fuck me.” His thumb went into overdrive on her clit, fast and relentless. “But don’t worry, baby. I promise no one will hear it over you screaming to get me deeper.”
Her bucking hips twisted on his final word, sending a multitude of sensations firing through her blood, seizing her muscles in a locked position to let the pleasure dance on the mountaintop. She wanted to get away, she wanted to get closer, her body didn’t know what to do, how to handle the shaking relief. There was even a hint of frustration that she’d only ever been halfway to completion until now, never having been propelled to such a level of fulfilled lust, but it drifted away when she started to come down. It didn’t happen all at once, but in softening degrees.
When an iota of mental consciousness became possible, Jasmine heard her own voice repeating “yes, yes, yes,” on a throaty loop. Felt Sarge’s tongue raking up and down the side of her neck, his teeth taking small bites from her shoulder.
Jasmine no longer kept her eyes closed as a defense mechanism, but because she didn’t have the strength to lift her lids. Something jabbed in her throat when she felt Sarge—now kissing across her shoulder—tug her panties back into place and zip her jeans.
“I’m not going to sit here waiting for some big talk to fuck everything up,” he gritted out, arousal thick in his tone. “I’m going to go back inside. I’m going to use the same hand that just made you come to jerk myself off. So damn hard. And later? Later, I’m going to hope you come home wanting the real thing from me.” He took her hand and squeezed it around what could only be his denim-covered erection. “Baby, we both know the real thing is what I’ve got.”
“You’re so arrogant now,” she whispered on a huffed breath, unable to put the required exasperation in her voice.
“No, I’m not. I’m overcompensating for the fear that you’re going to take one orgasm and run.” He sounded almost angry. “You should know I’m going to make doing that really hard for you.”
God, why wouldn’t her heart stop slamming against her ribs? “Somehow I already knew that.”
“Good. Maybe you’re finally paying attention where I’m concerned.” When his mouth settled at the corner of Jasmine’s mouth, she startled, and Sarge sighed. “Be safe at work, will you?”
“Okay,” she murmured as he left the car, the door closing with a firm click behind his retreating form.
Holy shit. Something told her safety wasn’t a concern at work this week. The hazards started and ended with the big compelling man crashing out in her home.
Chapter Five
For once, Sarge was actually grateful that Lita needed to be bailed out. The Old News drummer had wasted no time since returning from tour to raise some hell, being tossed into Manhattan Central Booking her first night back on a drunk and disorderly charge. While her one phone call should have been to James, Lita had called Sarge’s cell phone instead. But if Sarge knew Lita—and you didn’t spend years with someone on a tour bus without seeing their worst—she’d called Sarge with the express purpose of getting a rise out of their manager.
Sarge, however, didn’t have the desire to go a round with James by not alerting him to Lita’s latest antics, so there he stood, after an hour on the train. Outside Central Booking, waiting for James to show up and bail out Lita.
Again.
From his vantage point, he could see three separate Santa Clauses ringing bells for donations to the Salvation Army and wondered why they couldn’t at least attempt to appear like the real deal, finding their own damn blocks to work.
Taking potshots at charities now, are we? God, he was in a shitty mood. The back of Sarge’s neck itched; his winter clothes felt too tight. Sweat pooled at the base of his spine, even though the temperature sat squarely at thirty-five degrees. And while he wanted Lita’s latest stunt to be the reason for his irritable state, it had more to do with her calling from jail before he could…relieve himself this morning.
Honestly, he should be dead by now. Killed off from an unusual case of purple testicles. He’d slammed back into Jasmine’s apartment, all but salivating with the need to take out his villainous erection and stroke it to the memory of Jasmine’s sexy waist shuddering as she climaxed for his fingers…and his phone had rung. If he hadn’t had one fist propped on the entry table while he unzipped his jeans with the opposite hand, he wouldn’t even have seen Central Booking pop up on the screen of his phone, where he’d left it by the door. But he had. And he’d known if he missed the call, his pain-in-the-ass bandmate would be shit out of luck.