“Come on.” He nudges my temple with his nose. He’s smiling, too, and god, he’s so beautiful like this.
“Thank you,” I say, pretending to be annoyed.
“There we go,” he drawls, and I love it. I love all of it.
It’s the best sex I’ve ever had, and he still has his boxers on. I reach for him but he catches my wrists again.
“Jordan, I don’t know,” he starts.
“Please.” There it is, my desire out in the open. “I would love to, Tate.”
He seems to struggle before he relents, and jerks a short nod.
I wiggle out of his grasp, palm his straining erection and his lips part as I give him a slow, hard stroke.
The most delicious noise rumbles through his chest, so I do it again.
“Incredible,” he murmurs, and I give his chest a light push to make him lie back on the bed beside me.
That part of me that notices what Tate needs and lacks, the part that enjoys seeing him get what he wants, wakes up. With one hand trailing up and down the fabric over his arousal, I kneel over Tate, pressing light, sucking kisses over his chest, down his abs, along the trail of dark hair into his boxers.
When I tug his waistband down, he lifts his hips, slides his boxers off, and tosses them aside, freeing his cock. It rests against his stomach, thick, long, and fucking gorgeous.
“Wow.”
My mouth waters, another thrum of arousal threading throughme. Of course Tate Ward has a fantastic dick. A man as secure in himself as he is? I should have known.
“Did anyone ever tell you it’s rude to stare?” There’s laughter in his voice.
I sigh, eyes still on his erection. “I think they’d understand.”
He laughs, but his eyes fall closed as I wrap my hands around him. Like the rest of him, his skin is hot.
“You’re so hard,” I breathe, and he makes a tortured noise in his throat, inhaling sharply as my thumb circles the drop of liquid at his tip.
He swallows, eyes dark like sin and jaw tight. “There’s something about your hands that undoes me. Your nails,” he says, voice hoarse, eyes focused on where I stroke his thick length. “Every time I saw you mixing drinks at the bar or rolling a pen through your fingers during a meeting, I thought about this.”
My hands tighten and he nods, eyes falling closed again. “Like that, honey. Fuck. Exactly like that.”
I stroke him, gaze swinging from his perfect length to his face, and back. Have I ever gotten this much pleasure out of someone’s reaction? Never. But watching Tate unravel, watching him pass the point of no return, is like a drug. In my hands, he pulses, thickening even more.
In an instant, I’m on my back again, Tate hovering over me. “Like this,” he says. “I want to come like this.”
Gratification rushes through me at him using me the way he needs. He’s thrusting into my hands, bucking against me. He’s so close. He’s almost there. Finally, he’s going to unravel for me.
“Next time we do this,” I whisper, “you’re going to come in my mouth.”
And with that, he loses it, a low, tortured noise scraping out of him. He goes somewhere else as he releases hot liquid across my stomach, his head falling to my neck, murmuring my name andpraises about how good and perfect and beautiful I am, how he’s wanted this forever and it’s even better than he thought it would be. Better than he dreamed.
After, Tate insists on cleaning me up, and I reach for my underwear and dress but his big arm loops around my waist, pulling me against his chest.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
I don’t know. Leaving after a hookup—it’s what I’ve always done.
“Noah’s in the guesthouse,” he says, pulling the duvet over us like it’s settled. “And I sleep better with you.”
I still, a smile tipping onto my mouth. So it wasn’t just my imagination.
