He tilts my head to the side and breaths against my neck. I can feel his smile. I love his smile.
“Both. You aren’t my patient. I’m allowed to picture you bent over this couch.” His lips press against the skin behind my ear and I let out a soft helpless sound. I push my ass into him and the sound he makes is just as desperate.
“Jeff?”
He’s still pressing kisses along the side of my neck, sucking and nibbling as he goes.
“Hmmm?”
The vibration of the sound tightens my skin like a guitar string.
“I need you to take your clothes off,” I tell him.
And I really do. I need to feel every inch of what’s pressed against me through our jeans. Wrap my hands around it and drive him as crazy as he’s driving me.
“I’m going to turn you around now, Devon. This sweatshirt—” he slides his fingers under the hem and lifts the soft grey cotton, “while I love it immensely—it needs to go. Then I’m going to kiss you into the bedroom. Lay you down, pull off your jeans, and make you cum in my mouth. Okay?”
Jesus H. Christ. Okay? What is the superlative of okay?
“Can you explain the plan again?”
I’m not joking—I really want to hear the plan again, especially that last part—but he grants me a throaty chuckle then turns me slowly. Every second that he looks down at me feels like hours—the most glorious and infuriating torture. Then my hoodie is being lifted up, up and away and I’m momentarily blind, but I can hear the appreciative sound he makes at the sight of me topless. I took more time with my undergarments than I did with my outfit, and when I see the way he’s looking at my bra, the hard line of his jaw so tense it might snap, it makes the effort I made so worthwhile.
“You’re insanely beautiful,” he whispers.
“Half of that might be right,” I tell him. I want his hands back on me. But he’s still admiring me like I’m hanging on the wall of the Louvre. I loop my arms around his neck, tangle my fingers in his soft, thick hair, pull him down so his lips are just over mine.
He throws the balled-up hoodie across the room and it knocks over one of the gold-plated cat statues that line the top shelf of the built-ins.
“Your landlady, Betsy Ross, is going to be pissed if you break her antiques,” I tell him while he runs a slow trail along the black lace at the top of my bra.
He ignores me, too focused on his fingers circling and teasing around my nipple that’s pushing out at him, screaming to be touched.
When he finally gives in, the feel of his fingertips through the lace makes my head go back. I gasp and barely have time to recover before his mouth crashes down onto mine. And this—this out of control but perfect colliding of his lips and tongue and mine—this single moment is filled with more want and desire than the entirety of my womanhood. A distant voice in the back of my mind wonders what the hell I was doing all that time following dumbass rules while I could have been doing this, but Jeff’s hands beneath my lace bra silence even that.
I only realize that he’s moved me to the bedroom when the feel of the cool comforter pushes against my back. He’s still kissing me, softer now, as he deftly unbuttons my jeans. Oh, the benefits of bedding a surgeon.
“What?” he asks.
Shit. Did I say that out loud?
“Nothing. It’s your hands. Good hands. I like hands.”
That’s all I can manage to get from my brain to my mouth right now, because he’s slowly making his way over my breasts, pulling the lace down beneath them, proving that his lips and tongue are just as likeable and skilled as his hands. When thetrail leads down below my navel, I squirm, and he stops. He smiles up at me and I want to grab hold of his shirt and pull him down against me and take over, wipe that smile off his face, but he’s got one hand still keeping me down, fingers splayed across my abdomen while he slides the denim off of me. He keeps his eyes on mine until he can’t. Then all of his attention goes to the lace between my legs.
I nearly wore my “Don’t open ’til Christmas” undies, but I’m eternally grateful for my choice because of the look he’s giving them. That focus—the way his chest stops rising and falling as he drinks me in—it sends so much heat down over me that five alarms sound in my fuzzy brain. His fingers trail from my knee upward and stop just before the lace. I suddenly hate the lace. I hate every scrap of it, every inch that keeps his fingers from where I need them to be.
“Jeff, please.”
He looks up into my eyes, lifts his brows. Pretends not to know what I want. I was right. He’s Satan.
He lowers his head.
“Jeff, please what?” he asks, his lips whisper over the inside of my knee. He kisses my inner thigh.
“I’m going to make you pay for?—”
His finger dips beneath the lace and there’s nothing left on the planet besides that feeling—the pooling warmth—the demanding pressure building beneath his touch. He slides a finger into me and his smile melts away.
