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I like it, too, when he slides a big hand between my thighs, his fingers finding my slickness right away.
I gasp. Objectively, it’s good. I close my eyes, savoring the glide of his fingers, the circling of his thumb, that delicious attention to my clit.
The ache between my thighs sharpens, turns insistent. I feel close, like I can grasp the possibility of a climax, hold it in my hands, clutch it and never let it go.
With more urgency, he kisses my face, my neck, the corner of my mouth while picking up the tempo with his fingers.
He draws maddeningly fantastic circles through my wetness. “You feel so fucking good,” he whispers.
And so does he. I’m lifting my hips, asking for more, so impossibly close.
It’ll happen. It’ll happen this time. I just know it. I’m so sure that I’m panting, moaning, arching. I can feel it.
It’s there, just out of reach. Right on the other side.
Almost. Almost.
But then, I’m so far into my head, so lost in my wish to finally, finally come that I simply can’t.
Story of my love life.
I go into cruise control instead, chanting, “Oh god, oh god, oh god.”
I curl my toes. Arch my hips. And then I smile woozily. Breathe out hard, like I’m satisfied.
Sigh contentedly.
Maybe now I can finish him off. Someone should get to come, and he deserves it for trying so hard.
But when I blink open my eyes, Hollis is staring down at me like I’m a puzzle that both impresses and intrigues him. “You just faked it.”
I freeze. It’s not the first time I’ve faked it.
But he’s the first guy to notice.
15
DISTRACT ME
Rhys
“So they’re not trading me?”
“Rhys. I already answered this,” Amira says, then stares at me sharply, her gaze even more intense in those silver-framed cat-eye glasses. It’s intimidating, the intensity of her glare. But that’s why I hired her last year. I needed a change.
We’re at Eggs-cellent on Thursday morning. This breakfast café in Hayes Valley is Amira’s choice. The remains of her omelet—no butter, no oil, extra kale—are debris on her plate.
“But what do you hear? You know, the grapevine and all,” I press.
She sets down her cup of coffee. “What have I told you a thousand times before?”
Chastened, I mutter, “You don’t have a crystal ball about trades.”
She’s not done though. “And do I read minds?”
I look down at my empty plate that once housed scrambled eggs and rosemary potatoes. I don’t answer.
“Hun,” she prompts. “Did I acquire mind-reading superpowers in the last week?”
