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“Three minutes.”
“You think you’re clever, don’t you?”
“As much as you consider yourself to be.”
This wins me a full-blown smile from him, which not only is unexpected but damn if the sight doesn’t do something to me. Trent Nichols might be an arrogant prick, but he’s also the sexiest man I’ve ever laid eyes on.
With his dark hair and even darker eyes, he’s sin incarnate.
And the way his strong hand slithers up my dress while he’s eyeing the crowd as if he were talking about last year’s hockey statistics has me all hot and bothered.
I wonder if he fucks looking like this, all stoic and unaffected.
The only inkling he shows that he likes touching me is the color of his eyes turning one shade darker, two black pools mirroring an endless abyss.
“Two minutes,” I taunt when all he does is stare into my eyes.
“I lied,” he says out of left field.
“Not surprising. I wouldn’t put lying past you. The question is, what did you lie about?”
“When I said I could make you come in five minutes.”
The smile on my lips stretches wider.
“Giving up, I see.”
“No. Nothing of the sort.” There’s a ghost of a smile on his lips, one that suggests he’s in possession of a secret that only he’s privy to.
I feel my forehead crease as he leans down again, his lips pressed against my ear.
“I don’t need five minutes. Just one.”
I’m about to call bullshit on his remark when his hand snakes all the way up my thighs until the pad of his thumb finds the lace fabric of my panties.
Jaw agape, I stare at him in astonishment as he slides my panties to the side in one expert and smooth move. Before I have the chance to tell him to stop, I feel a light pressure on my clit, as if it had beckoned him to find it.
Most men can’t find a woman’s clit with a roadmap, and this fucker went in blind and found it on his first attempt.
I gasp as he runs two fingers up and down my wet slit, using the moisture to soak his digits before ringing the bell that will ensure all thought and reason leave me altogether.
Oh, shit.
No.
No.
No…
Fuck yes!
My eyes become hooded as I attempt to catch my breath, doing everything in my power to prevent him from seeing that his expert fingers are playing me like a fiddle.
No man should have this much power over a woman, least of all me.
“Cat got your tongue?” he taunts, knowing full well that it’s taking me an inhuman effort to keep coherent.
Gasping for breath, I tell myself that all I need is just one second to regain my composure. Just one, so I can cuss him out and call him every scathing name I can think of. Just one tiny second of lucidity to tell him I feel absolutely nothing and that he’s lost.
