My fingers clutch the sheets as he sucks on my clit and rubs his scratchy beard against my lower lips.
I don’t know how long it takes him to get me off. It might have been five minutes. It might have been a hundred hours. And that’s exactly why it works. Because he doesn’t quit or seem as if he wants to. Not even when I come so hard my legs shake. Not even when I have to grab the headboard and drag myself away from his mouth.
My hand rests on my belly, which is quivering, and I stare down at him. He draws the moisture off his beard with his thick fingers and then sucks it from them. It’s filthy and incredibly erotic.
“If you’re tired, you can write that email tomorrow,” he says smugly.
We watch each other.
“I will.” Resting a hand against my chest, I tilt my head. “You said I can try anything I want?”
“Yeah.”
“Including bringing other people to bed with us? Girls? More than one guy?”
His expression darkens. “I meant anything you want to try with me.” His tone is rough and displeased.And I’m glad.
“So you wouldn’t want a threesome?” I ask.
“No.”
I exhale, my hands shaking as the adrenaline pours into my veins. Orgies are a big thing in frat and sorority houses these days.
“You’ve never been tempted to see a girl take on you and your friends at the same time?”
“No.”
“Good.” My thumb rubs the edge of his handsome jaw. “I have a friend who loves being passed around. She really does. But Idon’t.I’m glad you don’t want to share.”
The set of his shoulders relaxes.
“And it cuts both ways. If you don’t want other people touching me, then other women can’t touch you. Only me.”
“What other women?” There is a beat of silence that punctuates his statement.
“Good answer.” I slide down, so the linens swallow me up to my collarbones. “For the record, I’m not desperate to be cuddled after sex. But if you’re willing, you could come closer right now, because it’s so fucking cold in your loft and the only furnace that seems to work at all is your body.”
17
ERIK
Early in the morning, I’m in the kitchen when I hear the loud thwack of something hitting the floor.
What the hell? Did she fall?
I sprint to the bedroom and find Arya standing on the cedar chest, which she’s pulled over to the wardrobe. On the floor are shrink-wrapped stacks of cash, and one of her hands holds the barrel of the loaded rifle, which she must have caught as it was falling.
Jesus Christ.
I grab the rifle and jerk it from her grasp. Startled, she jumps and has to grip the top of the wardrobe to keep her balance. I set the rifle in the corner, muzzle down, after checking the safety.
I turn with a stern look, and I get a measured, accusatory one in return. She had better be kidding.
Dressed in one of my white t-shirts and not much else, Arya hops down from the chest.
“Don’t ever go rooting around where there’s a loaded gun.”
“Who are you really?” Her gaze drops to the scattered bundles of money, which do look as though they could’ve been taken from a pallet during a bank heist.
