Page 84 of Hard to Score

“There’s still one more day to make it a full three weeks.”

“We’ve talked on the phone more than I’ve ever talked with anyone in my life. About politics and religion and favorite animals and bucket lists and, and, and. Take me downstairs and, pretty please, will you have your fucking way with me?”

His grin is taunting as it slides across his lips, his cock thick and heavy as it rests against me.

Talk about torture.

The man has done everything possible over the past few weeks to entice and seduce me. Like stopping by after a jog through the city to ask for a bottle of water since he ran out. So of course, he stood in my family room, shirtless, sweaty, and looking hotter than hell as he downed the bottle I gave him in one fell swoop, only to grin at me, say thank you, and then jog back down the fourteen flights of stairs and go back to his run.

Or asking me to come over for some takeout at his house only to find him mowing the lawn—shirtless again—in a pair of gray sweatpants that just might have outlined every hard line of his cock as he walked around doing yardwork. The grin he wore told me he knew exactly what he was doing. My stubbornness told me I wasn’t going to let him catch me looking.

But I looked. I definitely looked.

It’s been one tease after another. A suggestive text. An oops, shirts are overrated so I might as well take it off. A knowing look from him that feels like he’s undressing me with his eyes.

Sure we’ve gotten to know each other better than I ever thought possible, but in the interim, he’s created the sweetest, most torturous form of seduction. Knowing what he tastes like, feels like, and knowing that he won’t give in and let me have it.

I’ve been strong.

I’ve vowed to not beg or plead or open the door buck naked to prove the point that I want him—although that has been tempting to do.

But when I opened the door tonight and found him standing there with wine and dessert with rumpled hair and a shy smile, I knew I’d reached my limit.

I knew I was going to beg, borrow, cajole, or bribe to feel him tonight.

“Only one more day though,” he says. “I looked up topics online to ask a girl you’re interested in. The kind that allows you to get to know them better, and so far, I’ve found that we’ve only covered about one of the four pages of topics. Should I go get the list from downstairs so we can make some headway on it?”

“You’re kidding me, right?” I ask exasperated but giggling. The look on his face says otherwise. “Oh my God, you’re dead serious, aren’t you?”

He nods. “The ones I picked to ask tonight are thought-provoking,” he says in his most serious tone.

“You. This,” I say bucking my hips up, “is not helping the situation any.”

“And what might that situation be?”

It’s my turn to smile. “How wet I am. How much I want to feel you push into me. Fuck me. Lick me.”

That definitely got his attention. His eyes widen and his breath hitches. “You’re naughty.”

“Take me downstairs and have your way with me, Drew, and I’ll show you just how naughty I can be.”

He tsks, and the sound elicits another groan from me. “Remember the rules? Extended periods of time indoors in places like residences where there are a lot of flat surfaces, are a no-go,” he says, reiterating the stupid rules he invoked when our kisses grew hot and heavy, and I almost broke him of this promise. “They are too convenient to accidentally fall into bed.”

“Who needs the bed?” I dart my tongue out to wet my lip.

“Or the couch,” he says.

“There’s always the table. Or the kitchen counter. Against the wall like in Miami. The shower works too. Then there is the possibility of bending me over the coffee table. Or—”

“Semantics,” he murmurs but his eyes eat me alive as I taunt him. And when he leans down, when I think he’s going to cave and finally give me what I want—his lips on mine—he presses a kiss to my cheek instead.

I think my groan of sexual frustration could be heard all the way to California.

“Let’s talk about favorite places to—”

“No,” I shout out in laughter. “I already know your favorites. Your foods. Your routines. How you like to have one leg out of the covers when you sleep. How you have an ungodly time for a quarterback sprinting the forty-yard dash but you hate to run. How you love cauliflower but think broccoli looks like brains—something that makes zero sense. We’ve done this, Drew—way into the wee hours of the night done this . . . and now, kind sir, what I’d really like you to do . . . is me.”

“Demanding, are we?” he says and lines the tip of his tongue down my jawline where his teeth tug ever so slightly on my earlobe.