I tug on his waistband again.
Byron swallows.
I eye him. “I’m sick of being afraid.”
Griff, you’re doing great, good job, but can we step away from the balcony before we start doing stuff? Just a few tiny steps? Please? I have a thing about—
Out of the way, West.
I take hold of Byron by his sexy hips, then pull him against me. Our crotches press together. Our faces are mere inches apart. “I like you, too, Byron. A lot.”
Byron seems on the verge of smiling, lips slightly parted, breath uneven. But he seems reluctant. Nervous. Is he excitedly anticipating what we will do right now?
Is he as hungry for it as I am?
“So what are we waiting for?” I ask, feeling brave, feeling reckless, feeling alive. “We’re alone. Finally.” I lean in and put a gentle kiss on his neck. I hear a soft sigh of delight issue from him. He’s letting me take the lead, wanting it, waiting for it. “No coffee machines. No impatient customers behind me.” I put a kiss on the underside of his chin. He has such a strong jawline, yet his skin is unexpectedly soft. “Just you and me … and everything we’ve been desperate to do to each other.”
Then my face is in front of his. Byron’s half-lidded eyes meet mine, drunk with desire, like my kisses are sapping all the willpower from him, making him my toy to play with as I please.
“I want you, Byron.”
The corner of his lips curl up. “Come get me.”
Do it, Griffin. Go for the kill.
I dive in for the kiss. His lips fit against mine like a key to its lock. The hunger isn’t satisfied; it’s multiplied tenfold. Twentyfold. A hundredfold.
I can’t get enough.
My hands glide around his hips to cup those firm, muscular buns of his. They seem to flex under the touch of my greedy fingers, as if showing off.
I pull our hips even tighter together, grinding him.
Byron moans against my lips.
Take him to the bench, Griffin. Devour that fucker.
I steer his body to the wall. At once, we collapse onto the bench by the railing, Byron beneath me, our lips still attached. His princely crown flies off. I climb over him, out of breath, heart galloping, and there’s no telling where my hands go. His tight abs, which I’d grab hold of if they weren’t zero-percent-freaking-fat. His ass, which is now underneath him, pressed to the bench. His chest, still confined within this tight vest of his.
This tight vest. That’s what’s in the way.
Take it off, Griffin. Strip him. He wants it.
Incensed by the voice of my companion, my kiss deepens. Byron must notice because he responds with a moan and tilts his head, as if to allow me the room to strengthen our kiss further.
Take off that fucking vest, Griffin.
I grab hold of the vest and pull. It’s so tight, it has no hope of peeling off his body. I have never wanted something so badly in my life. My fingers claw into it, grabbing hold, insisting, ravenous.
“G-Griff …” he moans.
Yeah, I know. I want it, too.
Tear that shit off of him. Dudes get to the point. We don’t have time for foreplay. Fucking tear it off of him.
My kissing grows more aggressive. Fingers claw at his vest, grappling his tight muscles, his firm body, his smooth, perfect skin.
Byron moans against me.
Something pops.
“G-Griff—”
It rips. The top of his vest gives way, and the pads of my fingers run down his skin, grabbing. I’m insane with desire so visceral, I feel it like a hand around my heart, squeezing it to life.
Suddenly Byron sits up.
I slide off of him, the trance breaking.
He brings a hand to the top of his vest and looks down at it, inspecting the long tear, which goes from his neck to the seam at his shoulder. His astonished eyes find mine. “Wow. It … It tore.”
Underneath the ocean of desire, which still crashes in full storm mode, old me is desperately kicking his feet trying to break the surface for air. I blink over and over again, vision blurry and manic.
Byron lets out one dry laugh of disbelief. “You, uh, got a little … uh …” He inspects the tear again.
The ocean calms at once.
Old me makes it, gasps for air, sucking in a lungful.
Reality is back. “I’m … I’m so sorry.”
Byron looks at me. “Oh, it’s okay! I’m fine. Just—”
“It isn’t fine. I ruined your costume. I went too far. I …” Panic sets in. Bro, calm down. He said he’s okay. But the panic doesn’t settle this time. “I lost control. I was totally … I’m so sorry, Byron.”
“No, really.” He lets out another short-lived laugh, but I hear the strain in it. “It’s fine! It’s just a costume … which I did spend an embarrassing amount of time perfecting, actually, especially with the stitch work at the pumpkin, and the—”