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It’s not enough.
And he knows. I don’t know how he knows, but he knows, and everything happens fast then. He plants a knee next to me on the couch and his mouth comes down on mine, fierce and hungry and unrelenting. I’m on my back before I can register it; he’s on me, a thigh between mine. His hands gather my wrists and press them over my head.
“Yeah,” I say. It spills out of my mouth.
It’s so good. His lips soft but commanding, his tongue stroking into my mouth like he’s telling me what he’s going to do to me the second he gets the chance, and I’m all for it. I want it now now now—do it now.
“I know you do,” he says—because of course I begged him out loud, of course I have no self-control when it comes to Shane Fucking Hott. “But you’re going to wait till I say you’re ready.”
His hands hold my wrists still, his thigh has me pinned, his mouth is plundering mine. He licks and kisses and suckles and teases and works that thigh against the wildly needy swollen curve of my sex, and everything inside me winds itself into a tight, hot knot—don’t stop, please don’t stop—and then I’m coming so hard, my face buried against his neck, the vise of his hand still tight on my wrists, his thigh giving something for the spasms of pleasure to echo off of, so they go on and on—I’ve never come this hard in my life.
“Good to hear it,” he says—because of course I’ve said that out loud, too.
23
Shane
She’s perfect.
Incredible.
The heat of her mouth, the curl and stroke of her tongue, her soft, strong body writhing under mine on the couch.
The fierceness of her response to me, and the way she broke while I held her and kissed her, breathless and moaning, my name and all manner of filthy words on her lips.
It’s testament to willpower that I didn’t follow her over the edge because I was right there with her, so wrapped up in her pleasure that I couldn’t feel where she ended and I began?—
And I wasn’t even inside her.
We weren’t even naked.
She is going to destroy me if we ever do that. I will never be the same again.
Which is why I sit up on the couch and straighten my clothes. I help her sit up, too, and I watch as she fixes her hair and fusses over her clothes and doesn’t make eye contact at all.
Finally I say, “Ivy, it’s okay. It’s not a big deal.”
Her eyes flash to mine, and I see relief in them.
“I’m your fake fiancé. Least I can do is help relieve the tension.”
She laughs then. “Especially when it was your fault to begin with.”
Did I mention how much I liked that? It wasn’t like I walked in on her watching some random bit of sexy television. I walked in on her getting herself off to the sight of me fucking on-screen.
I’d pin it at thirty percent ego trip, thirty percent the sheer spank-bank fantasy of watching a woman pleasure herself while she watches me, and—what does that leave?
Forty percent the fact that Ivy apparently has a direct line to my sex drive. She turns me on like no one I’ve ever met before.
I should have known that when I flew all the way to LA to stop thinking about kissing her.
“Yeah,” I agree. “Especially when it was my fault to begin with.” I run my eyes over her, taking in all the marvelousness—her pink cheeks, the glow on her skin, her swollen lips, the sparkle in her eyes. And I thought she was hot before. Now she’s so tempting I have to fist my hands and pin myself to my spot on the sofa.
“You’re…” she says.
She’s gesturing and looking at my lap, where, yup?—
And she’s definitely pleased with herself.
