“No. First time.”
That surprises me. He looks like someone who owns this city—like he belongs to every rooftop bar, every corner booth, working the crowd and getting sales or whatever the hell it is that he does in that suit. But we’re still playingtwo lies and a truth, and I’m pretty sure that was the truth.
“You’re freakishly tall,” I say.
“Thank you,” he says without missing a beat.
“I wasn’t finished,” I shoot back. “That might’ve been a lie.”
He laughs easily. “It wasn’t. I’m tall.”
“Well, I’m not a fan of your arms. Way too veiny. And your glasses? Hate them. Not my thing.”
He leans closer, eyes catching the faint light from the screen. “Good to know. Can’t stand how your tits look in that dress. They look like they'd be too large for my hands.” He lifts his palms and holds them out in front of my chest like he’s measuring. “Yep. Wouldn’t fit at all. But I’d like to try.”
Two lies and a truth.
I swallow, heat curling low in my stomach at the direction this is headed.
“Your feet don’t even fit on the blanket. You look like you’re wearing clown shoes.” Okay, that’s the truth. “They’re way too large. Would be a total pain in the ass to buy shoes for you.” Lie one. “Can’t imagine what else is large. Would hate to find out.” Lie two. “I’ve never made out on the lawn at Bryant Park before.” The truth.
He grins. “Neither have I. I’d hate to do it. Especially with you.”
My heart stutters as his fingers slide to my hips, slow and deliberate. The movie fades into a distant hum. There are still couples around us, but none of them care about what we're doing, and the dark feels like permission to pretend they can’t see.
Cain reaches for the extra blanket at our feet and drapes it over us. His legs are too long, his dress shoes still stick out, but he doesn’t seem to mind.
I shift closer until our pelvises are touching, chests brushing against each other. He's already hard, pressed against my thigh like steel.
“That’s my dick in case you weren’t sure,” he murmurs, tone heavy with desire. “And it’s definitely not hard because I wasthinking about touching you from the moment that I saw you at the food truck.”
His fingers trail up my jaw, feather-light, his thumb brushing the corner of my mouth before he tilts my face toward him. “Thinking about how it’d feel to take this mouth. How it’d feel to have your body pressed against me. Fuck.” He curses before brushing his thumb across the seam of my lips. “I’d hate to kiss you right now.”
My pulse pounds in my ears, the space between us charged with anticipation.
“I’d hate that too,” I whisper. “Please… don’t.” I lean in closer. “Touch me.”
His face lowers until there’s only a breath between us, and when his lips finally brush mine—soft, testing, like he’s not sure I’ll let him—something inside us snaps. He groans, the sound low and raw, before pressing harder. His mouth moves over mine like he’s starving for it, like he’s been holding back for hours when it's only been minutes.
My fingers slide into his hair, tugging just enough to make him grunt against my lips and pull me closer. The heat between us is instant, impossible. I press my chest to his, his solid frame against mine, and every inch of me comes alive.
His tongue sweeps over my lower lip once before sliding deeper, tasting me, claiming. He doesn't kiss cautiously; he kisses the way I imagine he works. With no apology.Ruthlessly.
“Fuck,” he mutters against my mouth when he finally pulls back, breathing hard.
But I don’t want him to stop. I chase his lips, sealing my mouth back over his as his hands slip around my waist. My body moves before I can think, rolling my hips against him, grinding justenough that my clit finds the hard ridge of his cock through his thin dress pants.
Every brush of friction sends sparks through me. My nipples tighten, my pulse stutters, my body is begging for more. He groans again, this time lower, rougher, as if he’s fighting for control.
He presses his forehead to mine, his eyes dropping between us under the blanket. The world outside has disappeared—the crowd, the movie, the city. It’s just us and the slow, steady rhythm of my body rubbing against his, chasing relief.
My fingers trail down his stomach. It's hard and apparent that this guy works out. And then I find him through the silk of his suit pants. I cup him gently, feeling the hard length of him straining beneath the material.
I can’t tell where he starts or ends, only that he’s huge and the thought of what he'd look like out of these only makes me want him more.
“How much do these pants cost?” I ask, my hand still stroking what I can of him over the fabric.
“You don’t want to know.”
