Raw.
“Swallow,” I command.
She does as I ask, her eyes blazing with a heat so consuming that I want this moment to last forever. Her tongue darts out, cleaning a drop from her lips, and I exhale a shuddering breath.
I’m strung so tight right now, I feel like I might break apart from the tension. I take another drink, this time swallowing it myself as my eyes rake over her body, still fully clothed in a plain T-shirt and jeans, hair a bit tousled from how I ran my fingers through it, lips a little swollen.
I remember what she’d looked like dancing on top of the bar at Herds the other night. Her eyes lit with a fire that was new and exciting. I think she’d enjoyed being watched like that, and it gives me an idea.
“Strip for me,” I say, sinking into the large, overstuffed leather chair, tequila sloshing in the bottle. “Let me see what I’ve been missing.”
She smirks and runs her thumb over the hem of her shirt, a glint in her eye that has me—not so discreetly—readjusting myself.
That’s right, honey. I understood the assignment.
Her fingers slide under her T-shirt, and she drags it up slowly, baring her stomach, her ribs, her bare breasts, before it’s finally over her head and on the floor.
Her eyes stay locked on mine, and I swear I stop breathing at the playful gleam surfacing in her gaze.
She thumbs open the button of her jeans and takes her time—drawing it out—as she shimmies them down her thighs.
I grip the armrest, my throat dry from the vision of her in front of me in nothing but a thin scrap of lace.
I drink her in. The way that tiny triangle of fabric clings to her. Her smooth skin and the gentle curve of her thighs. Her pert breasts, nipples hard and begging for attention.
“Keep going,” I murmur, voice like gravel. “I wanna see it all.”
Her fingers slip beneath the waistband, and she slides them down, agonizingly slow. But it’s not the curve of her ass or her glistening pussy that catches my attention, that sucks the air from my lungs.
It’s the tiny tattoo inked low on her hip.
A little Winnie the Pooh, holding a jar dripping with honey.
I blink and then let a low chuckle escape.
“You have a tattoo,” I rasp, eyes glued to the mark on her hip. “Is Winnie the Pooh dipping his hand in your honey pot?”
Quinn throws her head back to laugh, flushed with a confidence that’s impossible to ignore.
Jesus fucking Christ.
“Crawl to me,” I say, voice low and rough as desire surges up my spine. “I want a better look at it.”
Her lips part, and her breath hitches. She hesitates only a beat before she drops to her knees. And then she moves.
It might be the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. Hips swaying—slow and deliberate—as she crawls to me. Her gaze locks on mine, smirking like she knows exactly what this is doing to me.
Yeah, it’s definitely the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.
I’m leaking so much my boxers are soaked. I shift, trying to adjust myself, but heat flashes through me, and I let out a shaky breath.How the hell am I already this close to coming?
The moment she’s close enough, I reach for her. She rises to stand between my knees, and I brush my thumb over that dirty little tattoo.
“Cutest fucking thing I’ve ever seen,” I murmur. “Also, the filthiest.”
She runs her fingers through my hair absentmindedly. “I think I might love being filthy.”
Goddamn.
