“These guys are really good,” Wyatt says, double-fisting Crown and Cokes while I slake my thirst on cosmos. The first few tasted like pure rubbing alcohol, but I’m halfway through my third and either they’ve eased up on the liquor or I’m well on my way to shitfaced.
“You’re really good.” I give him a filthy eye-fucking, holding my drink out to the side while resting my free hand on his shoulder and shaking my ass. My ogle’s so lewd I wouldn’t be surprised if a cop showed up and cuffed me on a count of indecent exposure.
After a few drinks, he too has loosened up quite a bit. And those moves of his—the ones Prissy bragged so staunchly about—begin to make their appearance.
“You’re not a bad dancer,” I offer, while he grinds his erection into my ass to the beat of “Pour Some Sugar On Me.” A wave of heat starts at my cheeks, trailing down my body. My skin tingles with his every touch. I’m hot to the point of feeling feverish, but it’s a welcome burn—the kind that warms you from the inside out. Like being curled up in front of a fire with a steaming cup of hot chocolate, a cozy blanket, and fuzzy socks. Throw in some pussy pulses, and that’s me…in a nutshell.
Every now and then I’m jolted from our little bubble of love and slapped with a reminder of just how jam-packed this dancefloor is, like when some overzealous patron nearly knocked me on my ass or when another got a little handsy and Wyatt had to set his ass straight. But for the most part, my vision is singularly focused on one man. When his hands are on my body, the rest of the world fades away. There’s only him and me and the endorphins flooding through my veins. This constant build of sexual tension has me feeling a bit like a tea kettle ready to blow.
“Five minutes til midnight,” the lead singer shouts into his mic before the band jumps right into a funky rendition of Prince’s “1999”—such a classic New Year’s jam.
The hair at the nape of my neck soaks with sweat while Wyatt and I join in with the rest of the crowd in some variation of a mosh pit—a little less violent, a whole lot messier. We are literally being showered with every type of alcoholic beverage you could dream of.
My heart pulses harder and faster with the mounting excitement over my first ever New Year’s Eve midnight kiss. And thrums even more so if I allow my thoughts to drift to what’s to come when we return to that room upstairs.
“Almost time,” Wyatt croons, spinning me out and then reeling me back into his arms. My chest slams into his. He holds me close. “I’m going to fuck you so hard.”
“Well,” I say, buzzing with desire. The bulge protruding into my pelvis assures me the man means what he says. “That was unexpectedly hot…look at you acting all alpha.” I waggle my brows. “I should pump you with alcohol more often.”
“I’m gonna pump you with something, all right.” He bites his lip and winks. It’s adorably uncoordinated.
Before I can formulate a witty response, the music stops and the countdown to the new year begins.
“Ten, nine, eight, seven…” The flutters in my tummy ramp up to an all-time high as Wyatt pulls me closer, chanting with the crowd. “Three, two, one! Happy New Year!” The sky explodes and confetti sprays into the air.
Just as the beginning notes to “Auld Lang Syne” fire up, Wyatt crushes his lips to mine. Gripping the sides of my face, he caresses my jaw with the pads of his thumbs while easing his tongue inside. With deliberate slowness he proceeds to make love to my mouth. Fireworks screech overhead and my erratic heart threatens to burst from my chest while he guides me, angling my face with a tenderness that has my toes curling.
“Happy New Year, love.” His adept fingers ghost along the sensitive skin at the back of my arms, tracing lazy circles lower and lower. Then he reaches around to cup my backside, while thrusting his tongue and his hips in a synchronized rhythm.
“Wyatt,” I moan, breathless and dizzy with want.
“Mmm?”
“Take me to bed…”
Whitney’s hand is in my pants, rubbing my painfully hard cock while I fight to get the damn keycard from out of my wallet. Why must they make the freaking slots so small?
With everyone else distracted by the ongoing festivities, we managed to land an empty elevator. Due to that stroke of luck, we’ve made it to the room with our clothes barely still hanging from our bodies, out of breath and on the brink of combustion.
I won’t allow myself to think too long about what a field day the security team must have had if they were watching that blasted camera. I stand by the belief that elevators, like bathrooms, should be allowed privacy.
“Finally!” Whit withdraws her hand when I shove the door open, stumbling over the threshold while kicking off her heels. “Meet me in the shower,” she slurs with a sorry excuse for a wink while reaching around like a damn contortionist and lowering the zipper on the back of her dress. It flutters to the floor in a puddle at her feet, leaving her completely bare from the waist up.
Fuck, but she’s beautiful. I ache to run my tongue over every creamy inch of skin she’s got so boldly on display.
Like a siren, she shimmies along to the music in her head slinking around the corner and out of sight. Her little black thong comes flying out of the bathroom, nailing me in the chest just before the sound of rushing water filters into the room.
Once I manage to pick my jaw up from the floor, I make haste stripping out of my shirt. On my way into the bathroom, I trip trying to pull the narrow hem of my fitted slacks over my heel. Fucking booze has my balance off.
“Everything okay?”
“Just peachy.” I’m hella relieved she’s not around to see me on my back, rolling about like a turtle flipped on its shell, while still fighting to free myself from these fucking pants.
Once I’ve managed to disrobe, I bound to my feet, happening a glance at the floor-length mirror as I finish the short trek to the bathroom.
My erection’s looking a tad deflated following that scuffle, so I give him a few good pumps, making him just a bit more presentable. Can’t be waltzing in there all willy-nilly, failing to put our best dick forward, now can we?
“Well, hello there,” I croon, slipping into the steaming shower behind the sudsy vixen, who appears to have gotten the party started without me.
“Oh,” she says, jumping at my appearance. “Fancy meeting you here.”
“Please”—I wave a finger—“carry on,” I say, referring to the sultry little dance I seem to have interrupted with my arrival. “I was enjoying that very much.”
“I can tell.” Twin fiery blue flames home in on my very enthusiastic cock.
Inwardly I’m patting myself on the back over that last-minute decision to beef him up a bit.
“Can I?” she asks, soaping a clean rag and gesturing toward my rock-hard dick.
“By all means,” I say, lifting my arms and bracing them on opposite walls of the shower.
With a satisfied smirk, she drops to her knees, letting the bar of soap drop to the floor while gently scrubbing my cock. If it didn’t feel so fucking incredible, I’d be in hysterics over the way she’s giggling while completing her task.
“The royal penis is clean, your highness,” she snickers, letting the towel drop with a splat.