“You guys ready?” A knock on the door startles us. I jerk my hand back and he lets me but his body doesn’t move away from mine.
“One second,” he says before stepping so close that his body brushes against mine and his breath heats the skin by my ear when he leans down. “Keep telling yourself that you don’t want another round in the sheets with me, but I don’t buy it. Keep trying to act like you haven’t thought about it and me all morning . . . but you’re only fooling yourself.”
“Don’t be so sure of yourself.”
“Oh, I’m sure all right. Right now your panties are wet thinking about how great last night was. Your pussy is aching wanting me to fill it again. You nipples are so hard they hurt knowing the pleasure I brought you. So you can pretend all you want that you don’t want me again . . . but it’s written all over your body.” His teeth nip my earlobe as I draw in a ragged breath. “You’ll say yes.”
Arrogant son of a bitch.
“Come in,” he says before I can even respond. His lips brush against mine as the door opens and outside noise filters in with it. “Pretexts, remember?”
I glare at him while all my body wants to do is lean forward and take another sip of his lips. But I don’t. Instead I do the only thing I can to put him somewhat back in his place and hopefully, make him know what it is to want.
“Who said I’m wearing any panties?” A quirk of my eyebrow. A coy smile on my lips. An aversion of my gaze as I sit back down in the chair to let the hair and make-up team work their magic on me.
He stands there for a few seconds longer, the weight of his stare palpable.
When he walks away without a word, I stare at myself in the mirror, and I ask myself the one question that keeps circling in my mind: What am I hesitating for?
Good looking. Check.
Great in bed. Check.
Is perfectly fine with sex and only sex. Check.
Is frustrating enough that irritation won’t allow me to develop feelings for him. Double check.
Is it my fear that I’m playing perfectly into his hand that has me stepping back? Much like how I told him off the first time we met?
His laughter rumbles down the hallway from wherever he is in this television studio and I just don’t know the answer.
Every woman deserves to be treated like they matter after they’ve slept with someone.
A nice sentiment, but still just part of his game. But hell if that player isn’t swoon worthy at times.
“THERE’S MY GIRL,” ZANE SAYS before pulling on my waist so I fall on top of his lap without warning.
I yelp in surprise and then stiffen when I feel the full heat of his body against mine. “What are you—”
“Just keeping up pretexts,” he murmurs in my ear as his arms wrap around me.
Son of a bitch.
He’s right though. The two hundred or so attendees who arrived early to our event and are milling about waiting to win some of the free prizes will eat it up when they see the cute couple on the chair. They’ll buy the notion that love really exists.
But for me? All I can feel are his arms around my waist and his breath hitting my ear, and his lips pressing a soft kiss to my lips.
“You’re not playing fair, Phillips.”
“Maybe not, but I suggest you don’t squirm right now like you’re doing or else it’s going to make it hard for both of us to stand up . . . considering your self-professed habit of not wearing panties and all.”
“That was two days ago,” I say.
“Forty-eight hours and a lot of fantasies about what I’d find if I lifted up that skirt of yours.”
“Keep dreaming, dear.” I say and scrape a fingernail up his thigh as I smile softly to those walking by, who seem to recognize us as the people in the ad campaign. “Anyway, I thought nothing fazed you.”
“Just keeping up pretexts,” he murmurs through a chuckle.
And he’s right. All of his interaction with me—the extra touches, the knowing glances, the accidental brushes against my breasts—has been when we are in public and doing our jobs.
The minute we get back to the coach or are alone, he doesn’t touch or even look my way even when I’ve given him more than ample opportunity to. It’s like there’s this imaginary line down the middle of the bed. He makes sure he’s nowhere near the bedroom when I’m changing, taking a shower, or even going to bed. He’s up before me despite being a self-proclaimed non-morning person. It’s almost as if he’s not even there.
I can’t figure out if this whole turn of events makes me relieved that the pressure is off or conflicted that he seems to not be interested.
Do I want to sleep with him again? Yes. Yes. Oh, and yes. But at the cost of proving him right? That’s a hard one.
But . . . but if I make him call Uncle first . . . won’t I be getting both—a win to prove him wrong and some incredible sex to celebrate it?
So what do I do? I wiggle my ass as discretely as possible and earn a groan from him.
I suffer as well in the process, feeling his dick harden beneath me and hit right in the spot where I’d lower myself onto it.