“The way you’re looking at me says you want to pick back up where we left off the other night.”
She absently touched her lips. “My face says all that?”
He leaned over her, resting palms on either side of her head, the mattress dipping under the weight. His body was above her. Not touching, but close enough that if she were to move slightly their good parts would line up.
“It says a lot more than that.”
“Like what?”
“You know what. But if you say stop, I’ll stop.”
Did she want him to stop? If they went there, it would be opening a door that could never be shut again.
“If you want the pillows back, just say the word.”
Poppy cupped his jaw, the scruff closer to a beard than a five o’clock shadow. Ignoring all the red flags flapping in the wind, and the fact that her lady parts had long ago turned in their resignation, she heard herself whisper, “Fuck the pillows.”
“I’d rather fuck you.”
DIARY ROOM:
Producer: Your relationship with Poppy seems to be less frosty.
Decker: No comment.
19
Luckiest son of a bitch on the planet—that was what Decker’s next tattoo was going to read. Because if you’d told him at the start of this project that there would be a reality in which Poppy didn’t hate his guts, he wouldn’t have believed it. But it appeared that she liked him. A lot.
It took about three seconds and a groan for him to realize that while he’d been waiting for her to kick him in in the jewels, Poppy Hart, queen of restraint, had wrapped her legs around his waist and was doing a damn fine polish job on those jewels with her hips. And if that wasn’t a green light, then her gripping his hair and yanking him down for a kiss was.
And it wasn’t just a kiss. Nope, it was a surface-of-the-sun, open-mouthed, hair-tugging, real fuck-yeah kind of display. A kiss that erased every kiss that had come before and told him exactly where this would lead.
And he decided right there, with Taters snoring and microphones only a door away, that he’d follow this woman wherever she led. No questions asked.
All this time he’d been terrified of letting someone in;keeping people at a distance was the safe thing. When what he really needed was to yank back all the layers and see where things fell. But this wasn’t just someone, this was Poppy Fucking Hart. And nothing could feel better.
Okay, he amended as she slanted her mouth to bite his lower lip and release it with a pop, there was one thing that would feel better. And by the way she was moaning into his mouth, this was just the tailgate party.
And speaking of tail, he had his hands all over hers. Palming her cheeks and massaging and squeezing that amazing heart-shaped booty. But it wasn’t enough, so he slid his hands beneath her pajama bottoms and yanked her all the way against him. Which was only fair since her hands were doing some exploring of their own.
Hell, if this was the result from talking it out then Decker was going to become a Master of Communication, maybe even take one of those courses Miles went on and on about. Because this was the best conversation he’d ever had. It was intense and deep, a real fireworks and headed-toward-the-finish-line conversation.
Speaking of finish lines. “Angel, much more of that and it will be game over before I even get those pants of yours off.”
“Then you’d better get to work, because this feels so good I don’t want to stop.”
No further conversation needed, he ran his hands down her curvy thighs and gently unlocked her ankles. Sliding his fingers into her waistline, he slowly peeled her bottoms over her hips and down her legs exposing—holy hell—a piece of black lace that could double as a shoestring.
“Did you wear these for me?” he asked.
“I wasn’t sure when I put them on, but I’m sure now.”
“If I’d known that you slept in dental floss and lace, I would have played this game of Guess what’s below the linea hell of a lot sooner.”
“You know what they say: The best things in life come to those who wait.”
“I’m glad you feel that way,” he said, placing an open-mouth kiss on her inner thigh. Close enough to her center that she gasped but not so close that he put the puck in the net.
