He looks up, startled, brow arched. “Everything alright?”
“I’m bored,” I say, more breathless than I anticipated.
He chuckles and closes his book with a soft thud, pushing his glasses to the top of his head. “Not used to being cut off from the world of social media, huh?”
“If you start your next sentence with ‘when I was your age,’ I might actually puke.”
He throws his hands up in mock surrender. “We wouldn’t want that. So, what’s your solution to this tragic boredom?” He teases.
“Drinking?” I offer hopefully, knowing it would take the edge off.
He tilts his head, eyes narrowing slightly. The look is enough of an answer.
“Strip poker?” I try, voice lilting.
His eyes darken, but I don’t think it’s from disapproval. I see the shift. His jaw tightens, his shoulders tense slightly. He’s battling it, whatever line we’ve been toeing since we woke up this morning. And I’m baiting him, shamelessly.
“Ava.”
His thick rasp coils around my name, making my toes curlinto the soft carpet. It sends a hot flush rushing from my chest to my ears.
God, I want to climb into his lap and forget the consequences. I want to rip that book out of his hands and replace it with my body.
But crossing that line would be a huge mistake. This man will always be around and involved. Is it worth the potential awkwardness for a night of fun?
“Come here.”
Two words. That’s all it takes for my brain to blank. My breath catches, and my body moves from his command.
I cross the space in two quick steps. When I stand in front of him, I suddenly don’t know what to do with my hands, let alone my body. My pulse roars in my ears, palms clammy against clenched fingers. My knees tremble, knocking against his.
His thick fingers reach up and grip my thighs, hard. The possessive touch makes my breath hitch, and goosebumps rise across my skin despite the room’s warmth. He looks from where his hands dig into my flesh, to the V between my legs, and up, deliberately, until our eyes lock.
“We shouldn’t do this,” I breathe, but there’s no conviction in my tone. My brain knows this is a terrible idea, but my body’s in control.
“You’re right. We probably shouldn’t,” he agrees, but his words don’t align with the desperate hunger in his eyes.
It’s the first time since this morning that we’ve touched skin to skin. If he walks away now, I’ll be ruined. I’ll crawl to my room, shut the door, and finish what the biker novel started. Even if I have to do it the old-fashioned way, with nothing but my fingers and the echo of his voice in my head.
“Tell me to stop, Ava.” His ragged voice is a plea for help.
I shake my head. The red line of sanity between us evaporates instantly. I don’t care. I want him.
“I can smell you.” His voice rumbles, unfiltered lust dripping from each syllable. “That sweet little cunt of yours is weeping for me already.”
A whimper escapes me before I can stop it. My knees threaten to buckle. The way he says it—like he owns my reaction—makes my whole body needy for him.
But nothing could have prepared me for what he does next.
In a flash, he leans forward, burying his face between my thighs. His nose drags over the damp fabric of my sleep shorts, pressing the thin cotton deep between my folds as he inhales hard. A raw, hungry sound vibrates from his chest.
“Scott, please,” I beg, though I’m not sure what I’m asking for. For him to stop? For him to rip the shorts from my body and work faster?
“Please, what, temptress?” His voice is like silk over gravel. “Tell me exactly what you want,” he demands, in the same way he ordered me around when he first arrived.
And I want to. I want to give him every filthy detail running around in my mind. Captured in his hands and under his heated gaze, I’ve never wanted to do something more in my entire life.
My mouth opens, but no words come. Shaky air slips past my lips, shallow and stilted. My body buzzes with pent-up need, but my brain spins in circles, too consumed by the feel of his breath between my legs, the burn of his fingers still clamped around my thighs.
