“It’s not what you think.” There is zero conviction in my voice. “I was drunk.”
He chuckles, knowing damn well I’m lying. I moaned his name for God’s sake. On video. Repeatedly.
“Hollis,” he says, pinching my chin and forcing my gaze to his. “I want to take you back into my bedroom, you good with that?”
Even humiliated, my thighs squeeze. Because yes, that’s exactly where I want to go.
I have no words, so I nod.
That’s all he needs.
Mouth to mouth, we stumble the few steps to the other closed door: his bedroom. I’ll take in what it looks like tomorrow, for now, my focus is on his mouth, hands, and everything he’s hiding under these clothes.
I toe off my shoes.
Fumble with his belt.
Swear at the bottomless line of buttons on his flannel shirt.
He sits on the bed, pulling me between his thighs.
Slides my corsage off my wrist.
My sweater over my head.
And stares at me before kissing along my ribs as his fingers dip under the waist of my jeans, peeling them off me to reveal a black thong. He follows the lines with his touch and gaze, the heat in his eyes telling me he fully approves.
“You’re even better than I imagined,” he rasps, kissing my sternum as I stand between his denim-covered thighs, his magical mustache leaving a wake of want in its path across my skin.
“You’ve imagined me, huh?” My voice comes out husky as my head drops back. My fingers tangle into his hair. It’s thick and soft and I resist the strong urge to nuzzle my face in it.
“Nothing near as good as that video,” he murmurs between a trail of kisses across my stomach and the swells of my breasts.
I heat, but for once it’s not embarrassment, it’s white-hot desire. A building pressure swirls from the back of my eyes to the tips of my toes.
His hands slide up my back, remove my bra, then explore the rest of my body. His mouth doing the same, sucking his way down from my lips. Across my jaw, down my neck, devouring my nipples.
I’ve had four kids, my body is far from perfect, but the way Jay’s hands are tracing the lines of my skin and his mouth is consuming me, I become a goddess being worshipped. Like I’ve never been more sexy or sexually capable than I am right now. Like he’ll do whatever I want him to.
“I was thinking of your hands,” I admit as he stands, his head nearly touching the low ceiling.
“My hands, huh?” he says, a little smug as he steps out of his jeans with my help. It’s my turn to drink him in. He’s solid and lean and quenches every thirst I’ve ever had.
This. Will. Be. Good.
“Your hands,” I say, slipping mine into the waist of his briefs and sliding them down his thighs. When he’s fully naked—and blatantly hard—I add, “And this.”
He levels me with a look of pure lust and—without him even touching me where I want him to—I feel the building of an orgasm.
He kisses me.
I arch into his body.
He rocks his hips—once.
“Show me what you want me to do,” he says, mouth against my jaw.
I pull back. I have never been forward in the bedroom. Never asked for what I want or thought of putting myself first with it. Ryan liked what he liked, and I never challenged it.
