“Rhys?”
His name rushes from my mouth on a breath, and I’m off the bed, hurling myself at him top speed. Somehow my legs wrap around his waist and my arms tangle behind his neck. I couldn’t hold back and play this cool if I wanted to. Every part of me that’s been fighting to stay focused, to keep working, to be on, collapses against him. Surrenders to the feel of him in my arms and the smell of him. My fingers lace through his hair. I scatter kisses across his face, the sharp angles and taut skin warm beneath my lips.
“So I take it you’re happy to see me?” He chuckles, pressing his forehead to mine, hands squeezing my thighs.
“Happy?” I release something that’s half a sob, half a laugh, pulling back a few centimeters to let him breathe. “What gave you that idea?”
We stop grinning at the same time, laughter dissolving, our bodies exchanging sensual information. My breasts flattened to his chest. His erection growing and hardening against my core. Our breaths mingling and hearts tattooing beats through our clothes and into the other’s skin.
I move first, leaning in to capture his bottom lip between mine, sucking and pulling between my teeth. Licking into his mouth like there’s honey hidden inside. He groans into the kiss, walking backward until we reach the bed and dropping me so I bounce a little, his eyes roving over me head to toe.
“Pep, what the hell are you wearing?” Humor and desire tussle in his eyes.
I look down, laughing when I see the young Jackson brothers emblazoned across my chest, my legs ending in the footed bottoms.
“If I’d known you were coming, I could have made sexier arrangements.”
“Arrangements?” He quirks a dark brow, placing a knee on either side of my legs, hovering over me like a promise. “Lingerie would have been nice. Other rock stars have girlfriends who wear lingerie.”
“Oh, are you referring to yourself as a rock star now?” I grin up at him, feeling whole for the first time since he kissed me goodbye a week ago. “That’s not egomaniacal at all. Is there a club? You guys have rock star meetings? Does one of you take rock star minutes?”
“You are sitting in here listening to my music in the dark.” He leans forward to tug at the zipper beneath my chin. “Maybe you’re actually one of my crazed fans. Or a groupie. I might even find a Mrs. Rhyson Gray t-shirt around here somewhere. My girlfriend doesn’t like those.”
“No, she doesn’t.” I shake my head, eyes never straying from his.
A small frown jerks his brows together. He tugs again at the zipper, but it doesn’t budge.
“Pep, it’s stuck,” he says.
“Sometimes it does that,” I answer easily, enjoying the frustration spreading over his expression as he keeps pulling and it keeps staying.
He places my hand over his cock, hard and poking through his jeans.
“Well, it’s not exactly a good time for it to do that.”
I laugh, grasping my zipper and tugging. Wow, it really is stuck. These are vintage PJs, older than I am and threadbare in places. I’m surprised the zipper hasn’t rusted before now. I sit up, bringing our bodies closer as I jiggle the little hook a few times. Nothing.
“Just how attached are you to this Jackson Five onesie?” His glance burns hot across my subtle curves visible through the thin flannel, telegraphing his intentions.
“Well this is Michael’s original nose.” I release a fake exasperated sigh. “But I do have my sewing kit.”
“All I needed to hear.”
Sorry, boys.
He grabs the two ends of the collar separated by the zip line and pulls until there’s a ripping sound, the panels falling back to reveal my naked breasts and my panties. A wicked grin spreads across lips.
“You naughty girl.” He runs a finger over the writing on the front of my calendar panties, carrying a current that simultaneously hitches my breath and gets me wet. “Wearing Monday panties on a Thursday. My little rebel.”
