Josh and Hazel's Guide to Not Dating - Christina Lauren Page 0,48

Curve of His Bicep, That Appealing Ridge Below His Collarbone, the Edible Eight Pack, and That Lickable Shadow Above His Hipbone.

I also notice he isn’t making any move to cover himself. Instead, he’s watching me with a cocky half smile, like he knows he’s been hiding this bit of artwork under clothes all this time and agrees I’m pretty lucky to be seeing it bare. Drunk giggly Josh is my favorite, but drunk confident Josh is my new religion.

My gaze drops lower and I realize I’ve half expected him to bend down and pick up the towel and ask for a blanket again. But in the time since I first peeked and then did a leisurely perusal of his torso, Josh has gotten . . . hard.

And, with my eyes focused on that hard part of him . . .

he goes the rest of the way.

Just watching me looking at him got him hard. I don’t even know what to do with that information. I’m afraid to blink, afraid all of this will disappear in the split second my lids close. When I look at his face, I see his mouth is open slightly. He has a question in his eyes, but he’s also looking at me in a way I imagine is similar to how I’m looking at him.

I can’t look away.

What is breathing? Why do I need to do it again?

In a rush it feels like all the elements in my body pool low, between my legs. I take a step forward, and—because I have zero impulse control when I’m sober, let alone drunk—slide my hands up and over the warm skin of his chest. His groan is barely audible. It’s not a sound I’ve ever heard him make before, but it fits him—restrained and quiet, an understated gust of relief.

In contrast, I let out a colorful string of expletives when my fingers dip into the hollows of his collarbones. Josh is so smooth and yummy. I want to dust him with sugar and lick him clean.

Apparently I’ve said it out loud, because he whispers, “You could. If you wanted.”

What?

Josh Im is giving me permission. I’m touching the unattainable.

Holy shit, what are we doing?

“This is a bad idea,” I tell him.

He nods, but his hands come up anyway, thumbs sliding beneath the elastic of my shorts, stroking my bare hipbones. He gently works my shorts down until they’re a puddle of dalmatian polka dots at my feet.

I let my fingers go where they want, and apparently they want to slide down the ridges of his stomach and wrap around where he is so warm and hard and perfect. He lets out a little grunt, and his eyes fall closed.

“We’ll only do it once,” I promise him.

His voice comes out tight, and I have to let go of him when he slides my tank up and off, throwing it behind him onto the floor. “Once.”

“We both just need to burn off some steam.”

His hand finds my breast, thumb gliding back and forth over the sensitive peak, before he presses, hard. “Exactly.”

“Because you don’t want to date me,” I remind him in a shaky voice.

“You don’t want to date me, either.” But as soon as he says this, his hands come to my face and his mouth comes over mine and it’s intense, just the way I always dreamed it might be, to kiss someone I love so deeply already and who’s seen me exactly as I am. He still tastes a little like scotch, his mouth is soft and firm, and he kisses me so good, like this is exactly what he needed tonight.

Tilting his head, he comes at me again, and deeper, tasting my sounds.

I can’t get enough. I feel like a worshipper wrapped around a golden god.

Josh’s hands have undressed me with a fantastic combination of impatience and skill, and his tongue slides over mine, his sounds of pleasure and need echoing in my mouth and brain. I’m reminded how not sober we are when we collapse gracelessly onto the floor; it’s clear we’re doing this here, right now, and won’t even bother to move out of the hallway. My last bit of clothing is pulled free and then Josh climbs between my legs, reaching down to feel, eyes closed as he holds his breath and slides in deep.

But I can’t close my eyes. I can’t stop looking at him no matter how much his form swims over me—even in the dark, even drunk, I can see