“I don’t know. Maybe you should check.”
“Check what?”
“If I’m wet.”
He curses under his breath. “Let’s go.”
Anticipation makes my hands shaky and my legs feel weak. Is this really happening?
My avoidance strategy is crumpled on the floor, just like my inhibition.
I walk out of the restaurant, trying to keep my feet steady as I turn toward our car, the driver already waiting on the side of the road. I climb inside; he follows.
Sitting side by side, I’m aware of every movement—the slight rise and fall of his shoulders with every breath, his fingers lightly tapping his knee, drawing my attention to the watch around his wrist and the way it highlights the muscles in his arms.
I press a palm to my hot cheek.
Owen’s gaze is on me, that sexy, confident smirk playing on his lips.
The car pulls up at the villa. I climb out first, open the villa door, and walk in.
There’s something in the back of my mind trying to remind me why being with him is a bad idea, but it’s foggy and muffled by the lust coursing through my body.
I grip the sofa to hold my body steady. Can arousal make the room look like it’s tilting?
Arms slip beneath my knees and around my back to scoop me up. I wrap my arms around his neck, press my nose to hisskin, and breathe him in. “You smell like dessert. I bet you taste just as good.”
“Fuck, you’re driving me crazy.”
I press my lips to his neck and flick my tongue, tasting the saltiness of his skin and the ocean breeze. “You’ve been driving me crazy since you kissed me, and then it got worse when I found out you build houses for people who can’t afford them.”
I groan into his shoulder. “Why couldn’t you be old and wrinkly and unable to get it up?”
His chuckle is a deep vibration in his chest that rumbles through me. “Sorry to disappoint you, but I’ve been hard since the moment I saw you.”
He lowers me to the soft, downy blankets on the bed and tries to pull away, but I tug him toward me, parting my knees so he can stand between.
He boxes me in with his hands on either side of my head and sinks closer until I can feel the soft fabric of his suit pants brush my inner thighs. “What are you doing?”
“Show me,” I whisper.
“What?”
“How hard I make you.”
His nostrils flare and his pupils dilate until there is barely any color in his eyes. He rocks forward, and I feel him, thick and rigid beneath his pants.
The ache in my belly moves lower until I feel a slick heat pulsing between my thighs.
“More.” I whimper.
“You’re drunk,” he whispers against my cheek, my arms still locked around his neck, unwilling to let go. “I should go.”
I shake my head. “No.”
I’m tipsy, but I know what I’m doing. I know what I want. “Stay.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
