I mean, this isHarry Hadleywe’re talking about.
The history we share has followed me around like a plaguing cloud for too many years. Plus, there’s Gemma to think about, the mother of his child. I still don’t even know what happened there.
“Harry,” I mutter. “Don’t we have activities to get to?”
He cracks a grin. “There’s a few activities I can think of in here.”
Outside, theclap-clap-clapof the runners on the track seems to get louder. At least my window is open. That just gives me another excuse not to throw myself at him and wrap my legs around his hips, feeling the solidness of his body against my thighs.
I can imagine running my hands through his hair, trailing my fingernails down his neck, feeling as his body tenses when I claw them over his broad back.
“Imagine,” he says, reaching across and taking my hand in a surprisingly tender way.
Imagine.
He continues, “I call Nick and tell him, ‘Mate, I’ve come down with a beast of a cold, can’t work today.’ And then we spend it here, in this room. Just me and you.”
He smooths his thumb over my knuckle, issuing tickles all up and down my arm.
“Just Imagine, Grace, all theactivitieswe could get up to.”
I almost do more than throw caution to the wind right now. I almost grab caution by the throat and toss it right into the middle of a tempest.
The way he’s stroking my hand makes me wonder what it’d feel like in other places. His cocky thumb stroking my knuckles would be so much sweeter if he was stroking somewhere else, maybe doing it slowly, teasing me, until my tender sex was hotter than hell and my clit was fit to explode.
But what about after the flurry of passion?
What happens then?
His lips twist upward, cocky as Lucifer in a land of sinners. He leans down toward me. I bite my lip, urging my instincts to make me back away.
But then I just think,Fuck it. A girl can’t be good all the time.
I stand on my tiptoes and throw my hands around his shoulders, bringing my lips to his. I squeeze the back of his neck and let out a moan as his lips part, still smirking like the cocky, irresistible prick he is even as we kiss.
He drives us backward against the bed.
I giggle as I collapse, the twisted blankets catching my fall and pressing into my lower back, as if they know what Harry and I are up to and want to give me the best fricking position for his eager fingertips.
He props himself up with one solid arm, smirking down at me.
“Are you trying to hint at something here, Nancy Drew?” He nods down at my hips, the way they’re angled up toward him. “Maybe somethin’ like …”
He trails his hand up my inner thigh, fingertips creating small pressure points that buzz and spread all over me.
Higher and higher, a conqueror’s look in his self-assured eyes, he edges toward my sex.
“Harry,” I whisper, half hating myself for interrupting him. “We’re not having sex.”
“Who said anything about sex?” he whispers, biting my neck, tugging on my skin. “It’s enough to just see you lying here like this for me, all sexy and sassy, waiting to see what pleasure I’ll give you.”
He kisses up, finding my lips again, in the same instance palming my sex. His fingertips grind through the thin fabric of my yoga pants like a fiery pressure against the greedy nub of my clit.
Okay, okay, just this …
Even if I wanted to stop now, I’m not sure I could.
I haven’t felt bliss like this in too many fricking years.
