His mouth trailed down my neck while his hands slipped up my body to cup my breasts. His long fingers undid the top buttons of my dress but too slowly.
“Tear it,” I whispered.
Buttons clattered to the floor. My bra clasped in the front and in a heartbeat, Weston had that undone too. He hovered over me, eyes drinking me in. I’d never felt more beautiful in my life. I reached for him, brought his head down to my skin. I moaned as his hands covered both breasts and his mouth went to one nipple. My back arched off the couch to fill his hands. The movement brought our hips together with a hard grind. I felt his erection through his jeans, heavy and thick against the soft material of my dress. Another grind. And another.
Weston let out a small grunt as his mouth crashed back into mine. Our bodies reached and retreated for each other, again and again. Moving as if he were inside me already.
Finally.
He slid one hand down my body to my hip and pulled me tighter to him. My dress fell away as I hooked one leg around his waist and cinched him tight.
“Autumn,” he growled into my mouth. “Jesus…”
My hands roamed under his shirt, feeling every slender, perfectly honed muscle. All edges and sharp contours. Not an ounce of fat left after Boot Camp. Only hard sinew, bone and muscle. My fevered imagination recalled his body on the track, slick with sweat, his long legs a blur before stretching to leap over the hurdles. Perfect masculine grace and agility under a bronze sun.
What would it be like to have that body naked on top of me? Those muscles blurring and stretching for me? Thrusting. Beautiful Weston, sweat-slicked and hard, driving into me.
Finally.
My hands were tugging at the button on his jeans, then the zipper. His own hand was between my thighs. Finding me and feeling how wet I was for him…
“Fuck, Autumn, wait… God, wait…”
Weston braced himself over me a moment, a grimace twisting his beautiful features. Then he was on his feet, turning a small, frustrated circle, his breath coming hard.
His sudden absence was colder than the coldest shower. A visceral slap to the face. I sucked in a breath and sat up, as if I’d been submerged in a warm, dark cave, and now was thrust into the naked light of reality.
“Oh God,” I whispered. Through tendrils of messy hair, I glanced down at my torn dress and my naked breasts. “What did we do? What did I do?”
You cheated. That’s what you did.
“Not you,” Weston said darkly. He tore a hand through his hair. “Me. I did this. Fuck. I’m sorry. I’m drunk…”
The tequila was still swimming in my blood, but not so much that I could blame it for what I’d done. And I knew damn well he wasn’t drunk. His eyes were clear and sharp as we regarded each other.
“I don’t know what happened,” I said, pulling my torn dress closed. “I became what I hate. I did what I swore I’d never do.” I lifted my gaze to Weston. “Why…?”
“Why?” he asked. I could see the barrier going back up. Every thorny vine coiled tight around him. Impenetrable. Yet I’d breached it. And instead of being stung…
I was kissed better than I’ve ever been kissed in my life.
“Because I’m selfish, that’s why,” Weston said. “Taking what isn’t mine. It’s all my fault.”
“No,” I said, taking another deep breath. “I own this, too. I have to take responsibility. It’s my fault too. I guess I felt…”
“Lonely,” he said. “You were lonely. Connor passed out drunk on the eve of goodbye, and everything you wanted to say to him—all your worry and love—you had no place to put it. So you gave it to me.”
“On the eve of goodbye,” I murmured.
Poetic choice of words.
The suspicions I’d voiced to Connor swam through my tequila haze, and were refracted stronger in them. Alcohol was my truth serum. I’d told Weston as much.
Weston…?
The image of him writing at a desk came to me swiftly again. Only this time, he set the pen down, stood up and strode toward me, held my face in his hands and kissed me…
I buried my face in my hands. “Oh, God…what is happening? And Connor…”