Crazy for Your Love (The Boys of Jackson Harbor #5)(6)

I lean my forehead against hers but keep my eyes open so I can watch her as we dance. When the music transitions into Christina Perri’s “A Thousand Years,” Teagan leans her head against my chest and sighs.

“You like this song?” I ask quietly.

She pulls away enough to look up and meet my eyes. “I just love love. Love is my favorite.” She giggle-snorts so loud that half a dozen people turn to stare, and I stare too. Teagan’s beautiful, but it’s always been her quick humor and open personality that have drawn me to her. I don’t care if this is fake. I’m going to enjoy every minute of this night.

I lose track of the drinks we have, the dances we share, and the women she politely sends away when they try to cut in. I imprint these moments on my mind—Teagan’s smiles, the brush of her hands across my back, the way she leans her head against my shoulder when the music turns slow.

When the party’s wrapping up and the guests are trickling out, she says, “I’m glad I wasn’t planning to drive.”

“Come with me for a minute?”

She studies my face for a beat. Is she thinking the same thing I am—as desperate to give into this chemistry as I am? She swallows hard, then nods.

I lead her out of the banquet room, down the hall, and into the vacant office by my brother’s. I press her against the wall. “I’m not ready for tonight to end.” My voice comes out husky, all the desire I feel tangled into those few words. I could blame the alcohol, but this buzz in my veins is more about her nearness than the beer I consumed.

“Me neither,” she says, her gaze dropping to my mouth. I don’t need any more invitation.

I kiss her.





Teagan


This isn’t the kiss from the stage—it’s not a kiss that’s gentle or asking permission. This kiss is hard. Demanding. Insistent. It’s the kind of kiss a girl dreams about, where desire is written in every nip of the teeth and slant of the mouth, where the chemistry is so potent that it has a taste of its own.

Keeping me pinned between the wall and his hard body, Carter strokes a hand down my arm and positions a thigh between mine. “You look so damn beautiful tonight.”

I pull back and stare into his dark eyes. My whole body is buzzing. I’m tipsy from irresponsible amounts of vodka, sure, but I’m drunk on him—his touches, his smiles, his whispered jokes in my ear, his body pressed to mine. “You think so?”

Insecurity nagged at me all through dinner. I watched those women staring at him and kept thinking he should have let one of them bid on him. His brothers might give him shit for his revolving door of women, but Carter deserves a little fun. And a lot of happiness. One little kiss onstage had me wishing he could find both with me—despite our friendship, despite my own rules for pushing him away any time his flirting turned too intense.

“I thought so from the minute you walked in the door. I love looking at you in this dress. And those sexy shoes . . .” He swallows, his eyes dipping to the swell of my cleavage. “Dancing with you like that was killing me.”

“Me too,” I admit, and the room spins a little because I want this. His words, his mouth, his touch . . . him. “This is crazy.”

“Then tell me to stop,” he says, even as his hands skim up and down my sides.

“I don’t want you to.”

He groans in satisfaction. “Good, because I’ve been dying to do this . . .” He reaches for the hem of my skirt, tugging it up to give his hands access to my skin.

“Just that?” I ask.

He nips my neck, his mouth trailing up and down—kissing, sucking, biting. Hot bolts of pleasure arc down my spine and have me arching closer. “All of this,” he murmurs. “I’m not done yet.”

I encourage him with a low hum of approval. I love the feel of his rough fingertips over my hipbones, relish the scrape of his callouses across sensitive skin as he traces the satin waistband of my panties. His lazy fingers that send shivers down my arms and make my knees weak.

I pull his shirt free from his dress pants and fumble with the buttons. Three buttons in, impatience has me abandoning my task. I slide my hands under his shirt, needing the feel of his skin, needing to get closer.

He sucks my earlobe between his teeth, and I gasp. I rock my hips forward in pleasure, but he shifts his stance, denying me the friction I need. Before I can protest, he cups me between my legs. His fingers dance across the satin in light, teasing strokes. He growls. “You’re wet.”

I shift my hips, chasing his teasing touch. “You’re observant.”

He chuckles against my ear and finally gives me the pressure I’m dying for, rubbing my clit. Once. Twice. Three times.

“Please.” The word rips from my throat. I don’t care about anything but the feel of his hand between my legs and the need that’s growing bigger and bigger within me, erasing everything else that I am and replacing it with need. Please, please, please.

Slipping his fingers beneath the scrap of fabric, he grazes his knuckles right down my center and across my clit. He circles a finger right where I’m aching and most desperate for him.

“Carter,” I beg. This is a fantasy. A waking dream. The alcohol in my blood makes everything hazy, but I can’t blame it for this attraction between us. I’ve spent years pretending it’s not there. Pretending we’re nothing more than friends who know how to make each other laugh.