It’s a bold move on my part, one that’s either going to tip the scales in my favor or send her flying into a rage that ends with me being kicked out of her house for good. At this point, both scenarios seem equally likely and though I know which one I’m rooting for, I’m willing to wait and see how this round of the game goes.
“Oh, you want to,” she says, her fingers tightening in my shirt as her palms slide over my chest and she glances down at my very aroused cock. “We both know it. So why don’t you go ahead and just do it?” Her hand slides lower, over my stomach, and for a second, I think she’s just going to go for it and wrap her hand around my dick right here in the middle of her kitchen.
Because I do want her despite everything—and because I’m not sure I’d be able to resist that—I grab her hand before it can slide any further down. Then I’m standing up, pulling her to her feet and whirling her around so that she’s pressed up against me but facing away from me, her back to my chest.
“Because,” I tell her even as I rest my hand on her abdomen—right between her hip bones—in an effort to keep her in place. “I don’t kiss women who don’t want to kiss me. Ever.” I lean closer so that my mouth is right over her ear, my breath brushing against the sensitive skin there. “So, what do you say we stop this game and get down to what we’re really here for?”
A shiver runs through her at my words—or at the feel of my breath coasting over her ear. I don’t know which. And frankly, I don’t give a fuck, because it’s the first real reaction I’ve gotten from her today. And like all good things, it only makes me want more.
Chapter 6
When did I lose control? I wonder as Ian’s thumb burrows between the waistband of my low-rise jeans and the hem of my T-shirt.
Was it when he first opened the fridge and found out the truth? I wonder as he strokes over the sensitive skin of my stomach.
Was it when I followed him to the table and sat down beside him? I wonder as his breath against my ear sends alternating shocks of hot and cold down my spine.
Was it when I made the mistake of thinking I was the one in control, the one playing him when all along the opposite was true? I wonder as he wraps his other arm around my chest and pulls me even closer.
Or is it right now, when I know I should be twisting away, when I know I should be calling a halt to this, and instead am powerless to do anything but stay right here, in his arms?
I’m not sure that the when of it matters anyway, not when he’s so smoothly outmaneuvered me at my own game. And not when he’s all over me, all around me, the warmth of his body so shockingly good against my own.
It’s an unfamiliar feeling, this pleasure I draw from being surrounded by his long, lean strength. I’ve been held by a lot of men in my life—on-screen and off—but never has it felt anything like this. Like my body’s on fire and every joint, every bone, every muscle I have is melting into him.
He must feel it, too, because suddenly he goes from simply restraining me to actively holding me.
“Is this what you want, Veronica?” He whispers the words against my ear, his warm breath making me curl into myself as more unfamiliar feelings swamp me. “Is this what you’ve been asking for all along?”
“I don’t—” My voice breaks, and that never happens. He laughs a little—a low, warm sound that makes my body pulse and my skin feel raw. I take a deep breath, try again. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Sure you do. And if you want this to go any further, you’re going to have to lay it out for me.”
He leaves the thought dangling, leaves the idea that there could be more of this feeling—more of this pleasure—right there in front of me. For the first time since I learned the power of sex, I am powerless. More, I’m reckless.
I want to see his face, want to read the emotions in his eyes. But he’s got me wrapped up tightly enough that I know I’m not going anywhere—I’m not even turning around—until he lets me. It’s not nearly as daunting as I expect it to be.
“Do you want to interview me?” I finally ask, the words low and breathy and pulled from deep inside of me. “Or do you want to fuck me?”
“Do you want to be interviewed?” he counters, his hand slipping further inside the waistband of my jeans to stroke my abdomen, my hip, the top edge of my panties. “Or do you want to be fucked?”
I never want to be fucked.
The words are right there, trembling on my lips, just waiting to slip out the second I lower my guard. They’re my truth, my shame, the secret I have kept hidden for as long as I can remember. Except, right here, right now, they don’t feel like truth.
Not with the way Ian’s breath tickles my ear.
Not with the way his calloused fingers tease my skin.
And definitely not with the way he feels pressed against me, his body hot and strong and oh-so hard.