“I’m getting there,” he says, his fingers withdrawing even further, belying his words.
“Get there faster.” I press my palms against the window, using it for leverage as I continue my bump and grind, trying to force his fingers back inside me. If he’s not going to fuck me, dammit, then I’m going to fuck him.
A low, sexy noise comes from deep in his throat, and he ducks his head to nip my shoulder. “The build-up is half the fun. The sexual tension. The delayed gratification. The anticipation.”
“Says the person doing the teasing. It’s agony for the one being teased.”
He nips me again, right at the hollow where my shoulder meets my neck. What’s with him and the biting? Not that I’m complaining. It’s hot AF.
“Trust me. It’ll be worth it.”
Trust him. It scares me, but I do. I trust him enough to fuck him where anyone could see. To relinquish control of my orgasm to his talented fingers.
To be careful with my heart and not break it.
Wait, what? Where did that thought come from? My heart has nothing to with this. This is about scratching an itch. Friends with benefits. Not happily ever after.
Right?
I groan and let my head drop to my chest. My eyelids flutter shut and my forehead bangs against the glass. “You’d better not leave any marks. I have to be on set tomorrow, and I’ll never hear the end of it from the makeup artist who has to cover them up.”
His free hand, which was around my waist, comes up to tug on my hair, jerking my head back. “Eyes open, remember?”
Damn him.
I force my lids open and turn my head to look at him over my shoulder. His shirt is unbuttoned—when did that happen?—his face is flushed, and his whiskey-brown eyes are clouded over with passion. A thin line of sweat dampens his brow, and if I’m not mistaken, his dick is about to bust through the zipper of his jeans.
“Please.” I’m barely able to breathe, so the word comes out as a whisper.
His fingers start moving again, going deeper this time as his thumb dances across my clit. He strums me like a master, finding all my hot buttons and applying the perfect amount of pressure, bringing me closer and closer to the edge with every stroke, every thrust.
“Look down,” he murmurs, his breath fanning the hair at my temple. “Do you want them to see you come?”
My only response is a groan, my mouth no longer able to form coherent speech. He kisses my shoulder, my neck, the sensitive spot behind my ear. When his lips part and he and sinks his teeth into my skin, a shiver rolls through me. It travels down my spine, swirls around my hips, and settles between my legs, making me jolt back into him.
My orgasm slams into me like a tsunami, my body shaking and my hands smacking the glass. When it’s over, I’m left gasping for air, trapped between the heat of Connor’s ripped body and the cool, smooth window. The contrast is both electrifying and unnerving.
“You okay?” he asks.
I can feel his smile against the nape of my neck. Arrogant jerk. He knows damned well he wrecked me.
“You killed me,” I admit between hoarse, shallow gasps. “I’m dead.”
“The French don’t call itla petite mortfor nothing.”
He takes me by the shoulders, turning me around to face him, and I study him through lust-glazed eyes.
“This is starting to become a pattern.”
He frowns down at me. “What is?”
“Me naked—or almost naked—and you still clothed.”
His already self-satisfied smile gets even more smug. “Feel free to do something about that.”
He releases my shoulders and takes a step back, spreading his arms wide as if to say “have at me.” I wobble a little, still feeling the aftereffects of the orgasm to end all orgasms, before recovering and going straight for his zipper.
I palm him through his pants, deciding to let him suffer a little before freeing him. He’s heavy and long and mouthwatering. Christ, I’m practically salivating. It’s not fair, dammit. I’m suffering as much as he is.
