Page 58 of Reveal

“I will not. I refuse to sleep with the enemy.” I pout, then close my eyes and let my head fall back in mock rapture as I gently pinch my nipples once again.

“You already have.” His voice is strained.

“I thought this was our first date, though,” I say coyly as I fight my smile.

“I’m warning you.”

“Does this bug you?” This time I let an exaggerated moan fall from my lips.

“Vaughn.”

And before I even have time to squeal, Ryker has snatched the shirt up off the floor and tackles me on the bed in one continuous swoop.

I squeal in shock and then protest when his fingers find my rib cage so they can dance with tickles up and down their line.

“I’m not putting it on!” I say through the laughter.

“Yes, you are.”

He straddles me so that he sits on my pelvis, his knees squeezing me in place as he tries to shove the shirt over my head. The motion has the thick hardness of his cock pressing against the underside of my breasts.

He pauses for the briefest of moments as its tip slips just between my cleavage when he tries once again to pull the shirt over my head. This time I push my arms together so my breasts squeeze against him.

“Stop,” he part groans, part laughs, with eyes that totally beg me not to listen.

“Or what?” I’m winded and can’t stop laughing.

“You’re making this harder than it needs to be.”

I still and lift an eyebrow and wink. “It’s much better when it’s hard.” I squeeze my arms together again.

“Vaughn.” This time my name sounds like a swear word.

“Oopsie.”

After a playful struggle where more tickling is involved, he manages to grab my arms and pin them to either side of my head.

“How are you going to get the shirt over my head now? Huh?” I ask.

He realizes his mistake and that his hands are full, so he tries another tactic. “I have Red Sox sweatpants and a sweatshirt somewhere I can force you into if need be. Hell, I’d welcome another barrier between me and your skin, so I suggest you stop struggling and put the shirt on.” He smiles smugly at me, and I do the only thing I can do—laugh.

And God, does it feel good to laugh with him. Over something stupid and silly and without a care in the world other than how I’m going to make him put his hands on me, all the while swooning over the reasons behind why he doesn’t want to.

This time when he tries to pull the shirt over my head, I let him.

“Why? Why are you torturing us?” I ask as I obediently let him put my arms through the sleeves.

He leans over and presses the softest of kisses to my lips. “Because you matter.” Another kiss of lips. “Because this matters.” And one more to top it off. “Because tonight was perfect.”

Every single sarcastic comeback I can think of dies on my lips as I run a hand over his jawline and lift my head up so I can find his lips just one more time.

The kiss is a languorous one. Soft and slow and detailed in its attention. When it ends—when we’re both equal parts sexually frustrated but intimately sated—Ryker rolls off me, pulling me with him, and just holds on tight.

“Well . . . ,” I say to add some kind of levity to the torrent of emotion this whole evening has brought to me, but it ends up sounding like drugged satisfaction. “For a man who doesn’t want anything else from me—”

“Oh, I want all right.” He chuckles and presses a kiss to the crown of my head.

“You sure are holding on like you’re afraid I’m going to bolt.”