Getting Played - Emma Chase Page 0,4

the way the moonlight shimmers on the trees, the smell of the ocean in the air, and the loose, languid feel of my bones.

Here, now, in this moment—life is really good. And when it’s good, it should savored, enjoyed. Celebrated.

A few minutes later, the song changes and “Boardwalk Angel” plays from Dean’s phone. I close my eyes, humming along, tilting my head up to the sky and spinning slowly in time to the music.

Until I feel him. I turn around and Dean is leaning against the door-jam, the heat of his eyes following my every move.

He’s wearing jeans—shirtless—his hair a damp, dirtier shade of blond. The muscles of his arms and chest are long and taut, all beautiful swells and shadowed ridges. Little water droplets glisten on his shoulders and I’m suddenly very thirsty.

“Hi,” I whisper, a little breathless because—wow.

His mouth does that sexy quirk thing.

“Hi.”

Dean moves forward, eating up the space between us and I step in into his arms like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His hands skim up my back, pressing me close, and mine slide down his arms—loving the warm, smooth feel of his skin beneath my palms.

And then we’re dancing. Swaying together to this slow song about the boardwalk and carnival lights and falling in love on a carousel. And there’s a sweetness to the moment—a magic and tenderness—that I just might remember for the rest of my life.

“This is a good song. John Cafferty and The Beaver Brown Band.”

I feel the chuckle that comes from his chest. “Most people would’ve said Eddie and the Cruisers.”

I shake my head. “Not me. I know my music.”

He strokes my hair down my back.

“What kind of music do you like, beautiful?”

“I like songs that tell a story. That make me feel. That make me remember. There’s a song for every big moment in my life.”

“Me too.” He rests his chin on the top of my head. “When I was a kid, music always made sense to me, even if nothing else did.”

“Yeah.” I nod.

And he smells so good—like sandalwood and spice and a unique, clean man-scent that’s just him. I want to run my nose across his skin—smelling up every inch of him.

When the song ends, our eyes lock. And I whisper his name, because I like the taste of it on my tongue. “Dean…”

He swallows harshly, his throat rippling, his eyes tracing my face.

“Lainey… Jesus.”

Then his mouth comes down on mine—hard and hot. His hands sink into my hair, angling my head, and a needy, frantic spike of pleasure streaks up my spine with every stroke of his warm, wet tongue.

It’s a great kiss, the kind they write songs about. A movie-star kiss—that gets the audience all hot and bothered. The kind of kiss that deserves surging background music—a whole soundtrack—that goes on and on and on.

“I wanted to do this the second I saw you,” he tells me between kisses.

I sigh against him, molding my body to his, warm putty in his strong, talented hands.

“I wanted that too.”

His fingers dance across my rib cage, pushing my tank-top up and off. And the sensation of our bare stomachs pressing, my breasts rubbing against the hard heat of his chest, is nothing short of heaven.

“It was all I could think about the whole set. Walking off that fucking stage and kissing the hell out of you.”

I wrap my arms around his neck—pulling him nearer, wanting him closer.

“Yes.”

Dean’s arm is an iron band across my lower back, lifting me off my feet, moving us into the apartment. He pushes me against the wall, grinding the unrelenting ridge of his erection against my pelvis. And it’s so good—that mindless kind of good that’s all instinct and no thought. An effortless intimacy that makes me tremble.

He holds my face in his hands when he kisses me—and I love that. The way his tongue delves deep, his fingers brushing my cheek, like I’m something precious.

His lips slide down to my neck, rasping against my skin.

“Lainey, are you drunk?”

“Yeah.” I rub my cheek against the spiky stubble on his jaw, and moan with how damn good it feels. “But not too drunk. I know what I’m doing. I know what I want.”

He straightens up and looks into my eyes, both of us breathing hard.

“Tell me.” He sweeps his thumb against my lip, like he can’t stop touching me. “Tell me what you want and I’ll give it to you.”

“I want you.”

I skim my palm over the ripples of his abs