Page 43 of Relapse

I saw it.

Tiny victory for me.

“You’re playing games,” he mutters.

“Maybe. But we both know you like it. After all you’re still touching me.”

That shuts him up for half a second.

Because he knows I’m right. His hands are still locked onto my waist like he physically can’t let go, eyes dragging over me with the same dark intensity they always have.

Possessive and hungry.

Conflicted in a way that somehow makes him hotter.

Which feels deeply unfair to me personally.

The music drops heavier around us, bass shaking violently through the foam-covered crowd while bodies slam and grind together in every direction.

Noir’s attention keeps shifting over my shoulder, scanning the shoreline, the exits, the people moving through the chaos.

Still paranoid and looking for danger.

But every time my hips roll against his, his focus slips a little more.

And judging by the way his grip keeps tightening?

He hates that I know it.

So naturally, I make another terrible decision.

I let my hand slide slowly between us, fingers dragging down his stomach before curling around him through his foam covered jeans.

And oh, hes hard.

Throbbing beneath my palm hard enough to make heat twist low in my stomach immediately.

Noir’s head drops forward for half a second while a rough breath leaves him against my neck.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Blair.”

I grin against his throat, squeezing lightly just to feel his breathing hitch harder.

“What?” I tease sweetly. “You looked stressed.”

“You are the cause of my fucking stress, little addict.”

“Mm.” I grind back against him slowly, watching his jaw tighten while my hand stays wrapped around him through his jeans. “Maybe. But let’s not act like you aren’t completely addicted to the problem.”

His eyes darken instantly.

And because apparently self-preservation is officially dead tonight, I grab his wrist and drag his hand lower between my thighs while the foam swirls around us.

The second his palm presses against the soaked fabric clinging to my body, his breathing catches hard.

“Oh,” I murmur sweetly against his ear. “There it is.”

His fingers flex instinctively, feeling exactly how wet I am through the material while my hips roll slowly against his hand.