“This is because ofyou. Not my ex, not postgame adrenaline, not anyone or anything butyou.”
With my free hand, I snag his loosened tie and pull him closer. “Then why are you still dressed?”
The question ignites a fire inside him. In one fluid move, he cups my ass and lifts me, as casually as if he’s rearranging furniture. I wrap my legs around his waist, fuzzy socks catching at the small of his back, as his lips find mine and his tongue sweeps between them, greedy and hungry. He stumbles a few steps farther into my apartment before he breaks the kiss and presses his forehead to mine.
“Tell me to stop and I will,” he says, his voice rough.
“Don’t stop,” I breathe. “But turn around unless you want to do this in the bathroom. My bedroom’s in the other direction.”
He barks out a laugh but does as instructed, quickly rerouting.
As we cross the threshold, he opens his stupid mouth and says, “Maybe we should do it in the bathroom. Your bedroom is making me nauseous.”
“I like pink,” I huff, fighting the urge to flip him off. “And critiquing a woman’s design choice will not help you get laid.”
He quirks a brow but doesn’t say anything else. Not even when he spies the mountain of pink throw pillows piled next to my bed. He sets me on my feet, then loosens his tie further and tugs it off. With his eyes locked on me, he quickly moves to the buttons of his shirt. There’s a little uncertainty there, hiding behind the heat. Like he’s waiting for me to change my mind.
So I stand taller and keep my focus locked on him as my heart pounds wildly.
When I remain silent, he shrugs out of the shirt and lets it fall to the floor. His pants and briefs go next.
Holy fuck.
The sight of him makes my core clench. I barely manage to rein in a whistle. He’s a mountain of muscle, perfectly defined and contoured. His chest is broad and his six-pack tapers into the sexiest V I’ve ever seen. There’s a trail of dark hair leading down from his navel, and I have to actively stop myself from announcing that blond pubes arenotthe upgrade I thought they were. Tattoos decorate his body—carefully chosen artwork, telling stories I’m not privy to but am dying to hear. And not just because I’m nosy, but because I want to knowhim.
“I’m no Stavros,” he says with a grin, dark and teasing, “but I can still fuck like a porn star.”
Confusion hits me. What? Stavros? Who the fuck is?—
Oh my God.
Heat flushes over my face, and I slap my hands over my eyes and groan. He sawSweaty Sex with Stavros? On my seventy-inch 4k HD TV? While I napped on his lap after coming on his thigh? I burst out laughing at the ridiculousness of the situation. No wonder he ended up watching theReal Housewives of Las Vegas.
I trail my fingers over the tattoos on his chest, soaking in the warmth of his skin, relishing the way his muscles tense under my touch.
He catches my hand, brings it to his lips, and presses a kiss to my palm. The moment is surprisingly tender, given the heated direction this is heading. “Your turn, sweetheart.”
He finds the hem of my shirt, fingers brushing against the skin at my waist, as he pulls the fabric up. As it floats to the floor, his eyes darken. For a long moment, he takes me in, gaze tracing my body like a constellation he’s mapping. Then his mouth is on mine again, hungry and demanding, and his hands are everywhere—my waist, my back, threading through my hair.
We stumble backward until my legs hit the edge of the bed, and suddenly we’re falling. Cameron catches himself with one hand so he doesn’t crush me and cups my jaw with the other, like I’m precious.
“I want to taste you,” he says, voice raspy, bringing his forehead to mine. “And tease you. And bring you to the edge over and over again just to hear you beg for it.”
My breath quickens, heat rising in my core. “Okay.”
“But right now?” he murmurs against my lips. “I really need to fuck you.”
“I have condoms,” I blurt out, sounding desperate and demanding all at once. “Lots of them. In different sizes.”
He pulls back, his face darkening. “Why?”
Is hejealous? With a roll of my eyes, I scoff—logical and mature, I know. “I stopped on my way home to get them, asshole.”
The lines of his forehead smooth and he mumbles out a contrite “Oh.” He finds where I stashed them in my bedside table, rolling one on in record time. Then his lips are on mine again as he presses against me in a way that feels intimate and safe rather than heavy and oppressing. One hand traces down my chest, then stomach, until it reaches the apex of my thighs. As his fingers brush against my center, a touch so light it feels like a ghost, liquid need courses through me, and I whimper.
“Fuck, you’re wet.” He groans, bringing his finger to his lips. Without looking away, he licks the taste of me from it, the action so incredibly erotic. “I can’t wait to be inside you.”
My huff is petulant, but I’m too geared up to care. “Same, so what are you waiting for?”
