Page 154 of Nash
"Standing is the Nash Sutton version of singing, and I'm counting it. It's going in the record books. Future generations will speak of this night."
His hand slides from my neck to my lower back. Down. Over my ass. He squeezes once, his fingers pressing into the curve, and I feel it through my jeans. In front of everyone. East whistles. Nash doesn't flinch.
Who is this man and what has he done with my Sergeant-at-Arms?
I press up on my toes and put my mouth to his ear. "If you keep grabbing my ass in public, I'm going to have a situation that requires private attention."
His hand tightens on my ass. He leans down, his mouth at my ear. "Hallway. Two minutes."
He releases me and walks toward the back hallway. Casual. Easy. Like he's going to check on something. Or doing a perimeter sweep. Like the Sergeant-at-Arms is running his usual operational protocol. Nobody looks twice. Nobody except me, standing by the jukebox with my pulse in my throat and a two-minute countdown running in my head.
I wait ninety seconds. Then I follow.
He's leaning against the wall beside the bathroom door, arms crossed, waiting. The hallway is dark. The sounds of the karaoke filter through the wall. "Barbie Girl" starts up for the second time, then Kyle's voice curses Knox's programming.
I open my mouth to say something. His hand covers it.
He grabs my waist, spins me, and pins me against the wall where he was just leaning. My back hits the plaster, his bodypressing into mine. His mouth finds my ear. His hand pops the button on my jeans.
"Quiet," he says.
His fingers slide inside my jeans, past the waistband of my panties, and press against my pussy. I'm already wet. I've been wet since he grazed my earlobe during Darla's performance, since his hand found my hip. Since he grabbed my ass in front of every person I know without a single hesitation.
His middle finger parts me, sliding through the slickness, and my head drops back against the wall. His hand is still over my mouth.
"Not a sound," he says against my ear.
His finger pushes inside me, curling, and my knees buckle. He catches me with his body, pressing me harder against the wall, and pins my hips with his. His cock is hard against my hip, the ridge of it pressing through his jeans into me. The feel of him wanting me while his finger is inside me in a hallway where anyone could walk out sends a rush of heat so intense my vision spots.
He adds a second finger, stretching me, and his thumb finds my clit. I moan against his palm. He presses harder over my mouth.
"I said quiet." His lips brush my ear. "You're soaking my hand, Ruby. Right here. Twenty feet from every person you know."
Oh god. The words. The words in that voice, low, controlled, his breath hot against my ear while his fingers curl inside me. My pussy clenches around him.
"They're right through that wall," he says. His thumb presses harder on my clit, rubbing in a slow circle. "Singing. Drinking. Having a good time. And you're out here dripping on my fingers."
I whimper against his palm. My hips buck into his hand. His cock presses harder against my hip. I grind against it, needingthe pressure, needing him to know that his voice in my ear is doing as much as his fingers.
His fingers fuck me slow, deep, curling on every stroke, as his thumb rubs my clit in tight circles. My hands grip his shirt, fisting the fabric. My hips grind against his hand.
"You like this," he says against my neck. "You like knowing they could hear you. That someone could walk around that corner and find my hand down your jeans."
I nod against his palm. I can't speak. Can't think. His fingers are inside me, his cock hard against my hip, his mouth is on my neck saying things that are rewiring my nervous system. Through the wall, someone is singing off-key with the bass thumping twenty feet away. The proximity of it, the risk, makes everything tighter, wetter, more.
He speeds up. His fingers pump faster, thumb pressing harder, mouth on my neck, teeth scraping my skin. I'm shaking against his chest, my moans trapped behind his palm, my body climbing, climbing.
"Come on my fingers," he whispers. "And don't make a fucking sound."
I come against his hand, my whole body clenching, a broken cry caught behind his palm. His fingers keep moving through it, slower, drawing it out, his mouth pressed to my temple while my legs give out and his body holds me up.
He pulls his fingers out. Puts them in his mouth. My knees almost go again watching him taste me.
"Nash."
"Mm."
"You just fingered me in a hallway during karaoke night while 'Barbie Girl' was playing."
