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“Hi,” she said, her hands slipping into her back pockets. She didn’t carry a purse and the gesture sent her breasts forward, making my mouth water.
I hadn’t expected her to give in to my dirty little request to show me her tits when she was at the salon, but she had, and now this little tease made me want to ease her shirt up and ditch that unnecessary bra. Sophie didn’t smile at me. She just gave me one of those long, earnest stares, gazing up at me under her eyelashes with unblinking intensity.
Then she almost imperceptibly slipped the tip of her tongue out and drew it across her bottom lip.
Damn. She was on my doorstep and already killing me. “Get in here.” I reached out and tugged her arm free of her back pocket, lacing my fingers through hers.
“Oh!” she said, but she didn’t resist when I drew her forward into my arms.
Sophie lifted her head, offering her mouth to me. Offering everything. It was all there in her guileless open eyes, open lips.
Women offered themselves to me all the time. It was nothing special or important or even flattering. It usually said more about them, and their needs, than about me. Maybe it did with Sophie as well. But I chose to find more meaning in it, because I fucking needed it to. I needed to know that if I was breaking all my damn rules—namely, repeating a hookup and staying off the drink—I was right to do so. Not that she wasn’t worthy, because she so obviously fucking was, but that I was worthy.
I had intended to take her mouth hard, claim her, remind her who was the wolf. But when she tilted her head up to me like that, I found myself giving her a soft, teasing kiss. Not sweet, but not demanding either. A sensual kiss. The kind I never gave anymore. But Sophie coaxed one from me anyway. It was brief, but I couldn’t help but smirk at her as I pulled back, seeing how stunned she looked. I wanted to spend all night shocking her, in the best way possible.
I drew her into the house. “How was your day? A bridal salon sounds like a special kind of hell to me, but I guess girls are into that sort of thing.”
“Not this girl.” She made a face. “My sister is having some sort of dress crisis. It was horrible. She looks amazing in it, but she was upset all afternoon.”
“Yep. Hell.” I went into the kitchen and pulled the fridge open. Another beer wasn’t going to hurt. I drank ten times that much on a normal night. “Want a beer?”
“Sure.” She came into the kitchen behind me. “Why do you still have my false eyelashes?” she asked, gesturing to the bottle I’d set there earlier.
After pulling two beers out, I winked at her. “Trophy.”
“Why, are you going to kill me? I thought your cousin seemed confident that you wouldn’t.”
“What? No, of course I’m not going to kill you.” I reached out and tapped my thumb on her nipple. “I’m going to fuck you.”
She was so easy to arouse. Instantly, her cheeks went pink and her eyes grew slumberous. “I associate trophies with serial killers.”
I drew my thumb across the peak of her T-shirt to the other nipple and rolled it over the bud visible beneath the cotton. “I didn’t mean that literally. I just didn’t get around to throwing the bottle away.” Not quite true, but how could I explain to Sophie what I didn’t understand myself?
“Oh, okay. I can be too literal sometimes. Ask Bella.”
“I like that about you. I like that you’re no bullshit, Sophie Bigelow.”
“I like that you don’t try to be this charming douchebag.” I twisted the top of the beer off and handed it to her. She took a small sip. “Like your brother.”
My grip tightened on my own bottle. “I appreciate that. But I don’t want to talk about my brother.” I forced myself to lean back against the counter and relax. “Tell me about you. You’re in school, right?” This was a girl who would be in school for years still if I had to take a guess.
She nodded. “I’m working on my master’s degree in mathematics with the end goal being a PhD.”
No shocker there. She told me she had been too distracted by math to have sex. Difficult to comprehend, but there it was. “In Boston? That’s where you’re from, right?”
“Yes. I grew up in Boston. I did undergrad at Stanford, but I hated California. So I’m back on the East Coast at Harvard.”
Cain gave a low whistle. “Harvard. Damn, girl. You are not messing around.”
She shrugged. “Not a lot of schools offer what I wanted.” She sipped her beer. It was a tiny, delicate little sip. But she still managed to get a droplet on her lip.
I reached out and wiped it off, taking my finger to my mouth and sucking the small bead of liquid. “It’s good to know what you want.”
“It is. What do you want?”
“You.” I could ask her about her studies, about her apartment, potential roommates, her family, her sister’s wedding. But I didn’t want to talk. And I didn’t think she did either.
“Can I give you a blow job?” she asked.
