Luckily, I’m a music star and used to doing all sorts of stuff in public that most guys can’t even manage in the shower by themselves.
“Deal,” I answer. Because I’m Griffin fucking Latham. And even if she doesn’t know who I am, she’s going to submit to me.
One kiss . . . five minutes . . . That’s all I have to work with.
And I’m going to make 'em count.
CHAPTER 6
RED
One kiss. Just one kiss.
That’s all I have to do to get a priceless Roxxy Roxx album.
I’m a grown woman. I can handle one kiss.
I take a deep breath and lift the server station, and then . . .
I’m standing in front of the weirdly magnetic biker. Be cool, be cool, be cool. You can do this. You can do this. You can do this.
“Hey,” he greets, his voice low, like were two past people who just happened to find themselves standing face-to-face in front of the same bar.
“Hey,” I say back, swallowing hard.
Allie warned me so often about not being caught without a tray on this side of the bar. I glance all around. It feels like I’ve wandered into a foreign country.
Looking beyond Griff is a bad idea, though. Everybody’s staring at me. Bikers are as rowdy as rowdy can be, but the room’s gone quiet, save for some country song playing overhead that I don’t recognize.
But then again, I hate country music. Unless it’s something my best cousin wrote. Even then, my enthusiasm for her songs might be more encouraging than truthful. Okay, stop thinking about Kiki. You’re Red right now. Be Red. Just be Red and don’t let your mind chew on anything else.
“This is a one-time thing, y’all!” I call out to our audience. “One rare kiss in exchange for one very rare record. A fair and square deal. That’s all.”
Griff raises his eyebrows, his expression skeptical and amused—like he’s caught me lying even though I’m speaking nothing but the truth.
I raise my Apple Watch and inform the gorgeous biker with my most businesslike tone, “I'm setting a timer for your five minutes.”
He grins down at me and steps closer with the same look Olympic athletes wear when they’re getting set up to run a sprint. “You’re kinda adorable. You know that?”
Before I can answer, he gently shoves me backward to plop onto the serving station’s single barstool. Whoops and hollers go up all around us as he wraps my legs around his waist and presses into me.
He’s wearing black jeans, but I can feel his erection. It presses into the space between my legs, declaring itself as loud and obnoxious as the bikers egging him on.
“Yeah, Rockstar, that’s it. Fuck that dick tease! Show her!” a few of them shout. Like he’s some kind of biker bro hero for putting on this display.
I squirm, instinctively wanting to extract myself from this situation. But Griff wedges himself even tighter between my legs, keeping me pinned to the stool.
“Ignore them.” His blue eyes bore into mine. “Focus on me. Focus on this.”
Yes . . . focus. I rip my eyes away and press the five-minute clock icon on the Apple Watch’s timer display.
“Your five minutes starts n—”
He slants his mouth over mine before I have a chance to finish my declaration, and the strangest thing happens.
All the noise—all the bikers jeering and calling out rude things—they all disappear in an instant. The moment his lips touch mine.
One rough hand curves around my neck, and the other finds my breast. My nipples tighten, and goose bumps break out across my skin. Not because I’m cold. No.
My eyes flutter closed. And did I say I didn’t like any country songs?
“This Kiss” by Faith Hill suddenly blasts into my head as the world becomes an eddy of sensations I’ve never felt before.
Heat sparks across my skin, lighting me up, consuming me in flame. And my legs fall open like a marionette.
He instantly takes advantage of the additional access I’ve given him. He groans against my lips, his heavy hips pressing into mine, demanding and insistent.
He doesn’t reach down to remove the barrier of my shorts, though. He’s keeping his promise. I should be grateful. But I whine inside, a sick and needy ache coming over me like a fever as I grind against the thick erection encased in his jeans, begging him with my body to take the kiss even further.
He catches one of my earlobes between his teeth. Then he drops his mouth to my neck to kiss all the spots I didn’t know could make me whimper and moan—make my entire body shiver with arousal.
He makes it worse. The need . . . the ache . . . He only makes it worse.
I forget myself. Forget the deal. All I can do is kiss him back, on his face, his neck—anywhere my lips can find skin. This feels so good. Better than anything I’ve ever experienced in my G-rated life.