It already was hard, waking from a dream of this woman to find her standing over me, touching me, half naked and close and smelling like flowers.
And running her fingers through my hair.
Fuck, but I love it when a woman strokes her fingers through my hair.
Of course, I’d love it even more if she’d stroke something else.
I open my mouth to suggest that, but don’t get the chance to as her hand keeps moving, trailing along the inside of my arm, over my shoulder, across my chest.
“You work out.”
Not a question.
But I still want to answer it, anyway, still want to preen like a fucking peacock and tell her exactly how much I can bench press, squat, and deadlift, all at once.
I don’t, though.
Mostly because her hand shifts, sliding up, cupping the side of my neck.
“And your hair is soft.”
More preening.
More wanting to turn into that puffed-up peacock.
“Come here, cookie,” I murmur instead, tugging lightly at her thigh, stroking my fingers up a little higher.
Tempting heat.
Silky skin.
I get more of it when she heeds my tug and clambers on top of me.
“What happened to your pants?” I ask gruffly.
Her eyes come to mine—molten emerald—and then drift away, cheeks heating, knees buckling. She settles on top of me with a quiet gasp, and the weight of her is welcome. So is the heat of her pussy burning through her underwear. “They got wet.”
I slide a hand up, dip my fingers between her legs. “How?”
She squirms slightly, pressing against me, telling me enough. She’s as turned on as I am.
“The same way these are wet, gorgeous?” I ask, continuing to stroke.
That emerald gaze flies back to mine and I half expect her to shy away.
But who am I kidding?
I haven’t been good at predicting what the hell this woman is going to do, not from the moment she stole my Lyft out from right under my nose.
So, instead of getting shy, instead of hiding and curling up in embarrassment because I caught her creeping on me while I was sleeping, she’s on top of me, her hands on either side of my face, mouth curving into a grin that’s filled with naughtiness.
“How do you think they got wet, handsome?”
“Because you were thinking about me?”
Laughter, bright and musical rings out. “What makes you say that?”
I sit up in a rush, flipping us on the couch, glad as fuck that I bought the one that was big enough so we don’t topple to the floor.
