Then suddenly she was moving, rolling onto her knees, her hand gliding to his shoulder, her thigh sliding over his, and he straightened to accommodate the move, a hand on each of her hips as she straddled him, settling herself against the rampant hardness of his dick as she kissed him from above now, her hair falling all around them in a curtain, trapping them in a cocoon of heavy breathing, bourbon, and bad ideas.

But she was hot in his arms and her tongue was playing tag with his and she was moaning and rubbing herself against the bulge in his jeans and her name was the symphony in his blood, the surge in his groin, the ringing in his ears. Almost of their own volition, Grady’s hands slid up under her fluffy sweater, inching it up as he went, his hands straying to the front, traversing her ribs—up, up, up—until his trembling fingers brushed against the smooth satin of her bra and the soft mounds of her breasts filled his palms.

She gasped against his mouth as he squeezed, and she made a strangled kind of noise in the back of her throat as his thumbs brushed over the taut points pressing into the satin, shuddering as he did again and again and again. He wanted to fuck her like this.

Her over him, above him like this. He wanted to bury himself deep inside her and kiss up every moan and breathy little pant.

God, her mouth…it was addictive and it was ruining him. He couldn’t get enough. He was fast becoming obsessed. In fact, he was so hot for her mouth and the noises she was making that he didn’t even know her hands had strayed lower until she fumbled with his buckle, pulled at his belt. He groaned as her fingers brushed his erection through the denim, and in seconds the button was gone and his zipper was down and her hand was inside his boxers wrapping around his thickness and Grady’s eyes practically rolled back in his head it felt so fucking incredible.

For a beat or two, he gave himself up to the overwhelming sensation of her palming him and her lips devouring his and the way her breasts filled his hands and how it was perfect and how he wanted more, wanted it all.

But that was his body speaking. His head was telling him something different, a backbeat that had rumbled louder and louder. A backbeat he just couldn’t ignore anymore.

Bad idea. Bad idea. Bad idea.

Such a bad idea.

She cried in movies; he’d been dry-eyed since seventeen. She was New York; he was bumfuck Colorado. She was touchy-feely; he was all do-not-enter. She was on vacation from her life. This was his life. And it was perfectly fine.

God fucking damn it.