no.
I pull out my cock, and I widen my stance, clenching my thighs, my hand wrapping around my cock and slowly tugging down its length. It’s half-hard already, and stiffens further under my touch, a soft groan tumbling out of my mouth as I picture pulling her from that window and scooping her up, knocking over beer bottles and lingerie and laying her out on the table. Would she fight? Protest? No. Not as soon as I lower my mouth back to that white bathing suit, my mouth teasing her through the fabric, lifting up her legs and wrapping them around my shoulders, her thighs against my ears, the smell and taste of her so close, right there. Fuck the lining of the suit—I’d get her so wet that I’d see it all, her all but naked on that table, the sight of her, her back arching against the hard surface, her hands reaching for me … I quicken my hand, squeezing the base of my dick as I jerk the shaft, my breath quickening, and I’m going to come like a fucking teenager for her.
I wouldn’t be able to stop, I would pull her to the edge of that table and yank that wet suit to the side, exposing the beautiful look of her. She would be the first woman I would ever take without a condom, and that initial push, the thick slide of my cock inside of her, her name off my lips—
My shoulders shudder against the door, and I come, breathing her name into the empty office.
If my need was lingerie, it’d be blood-red, with lines that scream for attention.
chapter 16
Him
When the doorbell chimes, it echoes through the house, bouncing off wood floors and glass, the tones catching my attention in the moment before I reach for the remote. I stand, running a hand through my hair, scratching an itch on the back of my head. I pull at the bottom of my T-shirt, stepping out of the media room and jogging down the house’s front staircase, the figure on my front porch manipulated by the poured glass. I hitch up my workout pants and pull open the door, blinking through the glare of the morning light. It takes a moment to recognize the man on my porch.
“Stephen?” Worry shoots through me, my thoughts rocketing to my last call with Kate, a few hours earlier. She’d been on her way to the store; we’d talked about increasing shipping costs and whether she needed a freaking parakeet. I should have told her to be careful, to get off the phone, to watch her surroundings and get back home. I—
“Everything is okay,” he reassures me, reading the alarm on my face. “I just came by to talk to you.”
As quickly as the panic came, wariness replaces it. I can count the conversations I’ve had with this man on one hand, all of them in the presence of Kate. There is no good reason for him to be at my home, on a Sunday morning, without her. I lean against the doorframe and cross my arms, sizing him up, my protective instincts on full alert. He’s my size, but less fit, his frame less muscular, the sort that looks good in a tux but gaunt in a bathing suit. In a fight, I would demolish him—not that he would go toe-to-toe with me. He’s too nice for that—too respectful, too friendly. He would adopt kittens but lacks the sharp edge to haul a woman to his side, then fuck her over the trunk of his car. My eyes move past him and to my new truck, its tailgate down, the vehicle blocking my garage, and the sleek collection of testosterone inside. I’d have her against its door, or sitting on that tailgate, her clothes ripping on its rivets and hinges, the cool metal against her skin, her hands trembling against its surfaces, her nails scratching its wax.
“I didn’t mean to bother you.” He clasps his hand, one palm over the other, and gives a nervous smile. “I’m sorry for not calling first. I…” he spreads his hands, “I’m running out of time.”
Running out of time. I think of Marks Lingerie’s fourth year, the two-million-dollar loan I secured with a trio of Italians who’d made my terms of repayment very clear. I had sweated through every minute of that year, through every check I’d written them, until their principal and interest had been paid in full. Maybe that’s what this is about. My eyes flick to the nervous twitch of his gaze, and the possibility of his insolvency encourages me. “What do you need?” I ask.
He glances past my shoulder, hinting at his desire to be invited in. I don’t move, my eyebrows raising, and wait for his response.