I slip my hands under his waistband and lightly scratch my nails low on his stomach on either side of his cock, making sure not to touch it. His eyes slip closed when I do it again, my name a plea on his lips when I finally work his waistband down over his hips. Gravity does the rest.
“Naughty.” Wes groans when I give him a firm squeeze. “I like it.”
He kicks free of his pants and sinks down onto the edge of the mattress naked, then holds out a hand to me. I take it eagerly, settling on his lap with my knees on either side of his hips. Muscles deep within me clench at the sight of all thatbare skin, and that’s before he gets my dress off, leaving me in nothing but long strands of dark hair spilling over my shoulders.
“I love your hair.” Wes leans closer and draws in a deep breath. “I especially love that I get to see it like this,” he adds, gathering the heavy mass of waves over one shoulder to give him access to my throat. Lightly massaging the nape of my neck, his thumb digs into a knot formed by long hours behind the wheel.
I don’t bother biting back my moan. Pressing my face into his skin, I kiss the curve of his shoulder and start to work my way up. “That feels good.”
His hum of satisfaction vibrates in his chest as he strokes down my thighs. He leans back ever so slightly, creating space for his hands to glide up and down, his thumbs dipping in between my legs but not touching where I really want him before he starts to drag them back down again.
“Eyes on me, Sloane.”
The last time Wes said those words, it was an emotional plea. His voice is rougher now, accent thicker, but under the sensual command, he’s asking the same thing.
Look at me. See me. Be present with me.
It’s all there in the depths of his gray eyes, the color darker in the dim light of my bedroom. Or maybe that’s just the intensity of his stare.
My breath stutters when Wes sweeps his thumbs higher, so close to where I want him, I swear I feel the ghost of his touch. He holds me captive with a wicked grin and strokes down again. It’s delicious torture, this teasing, but as soon as my lashes start to lower, his hands still.
“Sloane.”
My eyes flutter open, my mind blank but for the way he’s looking at me like I’m his entire world. It’s almost too intimate, but I force myself to keep my attention on his face. Wes rewards me by finally, finally pressing his thumbs into me.
And then he stops, sliding his hands back to my hips.
“I was thinking we could play a game.” His grip tightens when I try to move, the desperate need for friction growing. “Do you want to know the rules?”
I stare at him, laughter bubbling out despite how much I want him to touch me. “Really?Youwant to talk about rules?Now?”
That earns me a grin, wild and playful, but Wes doesn’t relent when I press against his hold again, craving,needing, his body on mine. “The rules are simple. I ask you a question and give you two possible answers. You pick one. Easy choices.”
“What sort of questions?”
He resumes the slow, firm circles of his thumb. “This?” I curse him when he stops after a few seconds, but it’s only for a moment. Then his thumb is replaced by the heel of his palm, roughly grinding against me. “Or that?”
“First one.” Erotic delight heats my blood as I realize what he’s up to.
Wes gentles his touch immediately, his thumb returning as he leans in to kiss me. “Want to keep playing?” he murmurs against my mouth, his tongue darting out to tease my bottom lip.
The combination of teasing and erotic command turns my body molten. “God yes.”
He chuckles, then maneuvers us so that I’m sprawled outbeneath him, my hair splayed across a pillow. “Stay with me, darlin’,” he says in a rough whisper, resting his weight on one elbow while his other hand dances over my ribs. “This?” He curves his fingers around my breast and gently kneads. “Or that?” His touch turns sharper, pinching my nipple between his finger and thumb.
“Second.” I gasp when he does it again and squeeze my thighs around his hips, grinding against him as much as I can.
Wes keeps going, his voice growing increasingly ragged with eachthisorthatthat slips past his lips. I’m so turned on that it’s a small miracle I don’t combust on the spot, every muscle taut as I wait for the next couplet of touches as he maps my body.
“You’re killing me.” At least that’s what I mean to say. What comes out is more moan than words as he swirls his tongue just under my belly button, more torment than relief.
He lifts his head, lips kiss-bitten and cheeks flushed. “It’ll be a good death,” he rasps, then goes right back to tormenting me.
It’s unlike anything I’ve ever experienced, the push and pull of this sensual game. If me in a dress makes Wes feral, this is doing the same for me—and not just because of the way he’s touching me, like he’s already discovered every spot on my body that craves him.
Wes sees me. Sees what I need—and gives it to me without hesitation. This game of his is a turn on all by itself, but more than that, he’s learning what I like without putting it on me to explain it to him.
It’s one of the hottest things I’ve ever experienced.
