Page 155 of Nash
"Yeah."
"That is either the most romantic or most unhinged thing that has ever happened to me, and I genuinely cannot determine which." I grab his belt. "Bathroom. Now."
His eyebrow lifts. I don't wait for permission. I push him backward through the bathroom door, kick it shut behind us, and press him against the sink. The fluorescent light buzzes overhead. The lock clicks under my fingers.
"Ruby—"
"You don't get to put your fingers in your mouth, taste me, then talk to me like that as you button my jeans like nothing happened." I drop to my knees on the tile. His belt is already open from where I grabbed it. I pop the button. Pull the zipper. His cock is hard, straining against his boxers. When I pull him free, the heat of him fills my hand.
"Ruby." His voice is different. Lower. The control fraying at the edges.
"Quiet," I say. Looking up at him. "Isn't that the rule? Don't make a fucking sound?"
I wrap my lips around the head of his cock and suck.
His hand slams against the sink behind him. His hips jerk forward, pushing deeper into my mouth. The sound he makes is rough, broken, pulled from his chest. I take more of him, my tongue running along the underside. My hand grips the base, stroking what my mouth can't reach.
"Fuck." His hand finds my hair. His fingers twist into my hair, gripping, holding on. "Ruby. Fuck."
I hollow my cheeks and take him deeper, my eyes on his face. His head drops back. His jaw is open, throat working, chest rising fast. The composure that holds him together in every room, every meeting, every moment of every day is cracking on the bathroom tile while I'm on my knees with his cock in my mouth.
I pull back to the tip. Swirl my tongue around the head. His thighs tense under my hands. I suck hard and his hips buck into my mouth.
"I can't—" His fingers tighten in my hair. His breathing is ragged. "Ruby, I'm going to—"
I take him deep. My hand pumps the base while working the shaft with my mouth. My tongue presses against the vein on the underside. His hips lose their rhythm, thrusting shallow, fast, and his hand shakes in my hair.
He comes with a groan he buries behind his teeth, his cock pulsing against my tongue. Nash's hand grips my hair so tight my scalp burns. I swallow. His thighs tremble against my palms. His breath comes out in bursts.
I pull off slowly. Wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. Look up at him from the floor.
He's wrecked. Flushed. Chest is heaving. His hand still in my hair, fingers loosening, trembling. The Sergeant-at-Arms undone in a bathroom while the jukebox plays through the wall.
"That," I say, "was my thank you."
He pulls me off my knees by my arms. Cups my face. Kisses me hard enough that he can taste himself on my mouth and doesn't care. He holds me there, his forehead against mine, both of us breathing hard in the fluorescent light.
"Fuck, that was hot," he says. Low. His thumb tracing my jaw.
"I can't believe I got away with that."
His mouth curves. The slow, dangerous curve. "Oh, you didn't. Your punishment is coming."
My stomach drops. The good kind. The kind that makes my thighs press together and my pulse jump.
He buttons his jeans. Smooths my shirt. Tucks a piece of hair behind my ear. Kisses my forehead. I smirk at him, turn, and walk toward the door. His hand cracks against my ass before Ireach the handle. The sting blooms through my jeans, and I gasp as I grab the doorframe.
"Consider that a preview," he says behind me. "Go back out there. You have something to show them."
The cuts. I almost forgot about the cuts. The man just made me come against a wall during an Aqua song, and I almost forgot about the single greatest craft project of my life. I walk back into the main room on legs that are still recovering. Nash follows thirty seconds later, casual, easy, taking a spot against the bar beside Knox.
"Okay," I say to the room. "I have one more thing."
I walk behind the bar and pull out the bag I stashed there three hours ago. Black leather. Heavy. The bag I've been working on for two weeks at Amaranth after hours. It's the project that made Frankie raise one eyebrow and say, "You're serious" then I replied with, "I have never been more serious about anything in my life. Which is saying something because I was very serious about the bedazzlement of Knox's bike."
I pull out the first one. Hold it up.
It's a cut. A woman's cut. Black leather, fitted, tailored to actual female proportions instead of the boxy men's cuts the club wears. Across the back, in rhinestones that catch every light in the room: EAST'S OLD LADY.
