“Loren?”
“What?”
“Shut up.”
Excuse me? “Don’t tell me to?—”
His hand falls over my mouth, silencing my argument. “You’re allowed two words: yes or no. Got it?”
Elliott Grant: Word police.
He wants one word answers? Fine.
“Do you want to fuck me or not?”
My face lights on fire.
Holy. Shit.
I cannot believe he just said that to me straight out. I am in so far over my head right now.
Is the answer to that question ever “no?” Look at the man.
From behind his hand I mumble, “I don’t think that’s a—” He presses a little harder.
“Yes or no, Chaos?”
I wait until he removes his hand to croak my one-word answer. “Yes.”
“Good. Because this isn’t how I normally wake up.” He kicks the covers all the way off us, his black boxer briefs riding up muscular thighs sprinkled with dark hair. His large hand wraps around his length, stroking slowly, his eyes darkening to a stormy hue as they sweep from my disheveled hair to my shorts. “This is what happens when I have to spend the night with your ass pressed up against me, knowing I can’t touch you.”
His tongue sweeps across his lips, and that one simple move turns me into a sweaty, panting mess.
“Now, take off your shirt.”
So many nervous words swell in my throat, but I swallow them down.
Yes or no. “No.”
He quirks an eyebrow, his hand stilling on his massive erection. “No?”
Since I’m not allowed to say anything but yes or no, I sit and lift my arms, waiting for him to realize what I want. A grin finds its way to his lips, and he kneels before me, catching the hem and lifting it up and over my head. He sits back on his haunches, his dick pressing against his boxers as his gaze sweeps over my bare chest.
He holds out a hand, stopping a fraction of an inch away from my breast, and quirks a brow.
That’s a big fat, “Yes.”Yes yes yes.
His hands cup my breasts, holding and anchoring around them. He doesn’t go for my nipples, just teases along the edges, deceptively soft and delicate for a man with such big hands. Even so, my nipples are straining for his touch.
He urges me back onto the bed and then settles over me, easing his head down and down, until I can feel his heated breath panting across my goose-bumped flesh. When his eyes rise to mine, I nearly expire as I pant out a desperate, “Yes.”
I don’t claim to be experienced in the art of lovemaking by any means, but Elliott Grant puts the three men I’ve been with to shame. Not only does he understand the meaning of foreplay, but also he is a master.
Every breathless, eager, “Yes” that falls from my lips leads to a new sensation. New pleasure. He doesn’t seem to be in a rush at all, taking his time.
Back and forth, sucking, teasing, swirling his tongue over my nipples, even scraping with his teeth, until it feels like I ran through sprinklers in my underwear.
His hands glide down my ribs to my hips, gripping tightly before flattening against my thighs, spreading them wide enough to fit his hips between them. “You wet, Chaos?”
