The Pool Boy (Nashville Neighborhood, #2)

by Nikki Sloane

“If I touch you, shit’s going to . . . escalate.” Relief washed through and disarmed me. His phrasing was almost amusing. “Escalate?” His pointed look was stern and provocative. “Yeah, Ms. Graham.” When he repeated the word, he drew it out, weighting each syllable. “Escalate.”

“Are you worried I won’t be able to handle you?” “No.” He was perfectly serious. “I’m worried I won’t be able to handle you.” His gaze dropped down to his dick clenched in his hand. “Look at me. I haven’t fucking touched you, and I’m already close.” My excitement ratcheted up to a new level. “Are you going to come?” I was breathless. “Right now, in front of me?” He shuddered through the powerful effect my words had on him, and his dick jerked under his grip. “Do you want me to?”

The moment our lips touched, I went weightless. It was like leaping off a stage into the waiting hands of the crowd, yet never landing. Falling forever.

“Fuck Tinder,” he uttered. “You don’t need it. I’m right here.” To add to his sales pitch, he leaned in and pressed the hard length of his body against me, reminding me how male and ready he was.

“Shit, you’re looking at me right now like you want me to bend you over this table.”

She was so hot, I was going to damage my retinas just looking at her. “Fuck,” I whispered. “Yes,” she answered, her voice wavering. “We should do that.”

Until this moment, kissing her had been foreplay. Part of something larger, working toward a goal of getting us naked and sweaty. But this slow, deep kiss wasn’t about that at all. It echoed what she’d sung about, how she was scared but didn’t want to be released. Our mouths moved together, silently singing how we both wanted more.

Nothing was guaranteed in music or life. Certainly not in love.