Her body still quivered. Aftershocks still reverberated in her core. She’d just come harder than she’d ever come in her life. Right against his mouth and stroking tongue. Then he’d walked away.
“Okay.”
Jeez, how many times was she going to say that one word?
Why had he stopped?
Why had he left?
And how in the hell had she even allowed things to go that far? She always had strict rules about the men she fucked.
We didn’t fuck. Preston and I did not fuck. Technically. His mouth had fucked her. But not his dick.
But she had rules.
She had to follow her rules. When she didn’t, bad things happened. Very, very bad. When she became interested in a man, there had to be no red flags. As in…zero. A strict requirement for any potential fucking.
Nothing about Preston Byron had indicated that he would be an appropriate lover for her. Not a single thing. She’d never even considered him as a lover. All right, fine…maybe she’d considered the possibility. He was sexy to the extreme. And perhaps she’d gotten a little obsessed—no, correction, intrigued—while she’d been doing her research on him.
But she’d planned to keep things professional. Truly. Until…
The dark.
The kiss.
The lust.
She stood up. Her bare feet curled against the hardwood floor. He was not a potential lover. Not.
So why had she been shoving her clit against his mouth? Why had she been rocking her hips so hard against him?
I can still feel the pleasure in me.
She took a step forward. Her knees were all jiggly. Her body was sated but edgy. Still edgy. Maybe she should go after him. And…do what? Tell the man to finish what he started.
Nope.
“Okay,” she whispered again. Dammit! Her gaze darted around the room. A dresser. Heavy wood. Old. No, antique. Fancy. She rushed toward it and yanked open a drawer. Soft t-shirts were inside. She pulled one out.
Uh, oh.
Her shaking fingers held up the shirt. Way big. So big it would probably fall to her knees. As big as the robe in the bathroom had been. And when she brought the shirt close and inhaled…
It held the faintest hint of Preston’s crisp, masculine scent. A subtle sandalwood.
Her head turned. She surveyed the bedroom with new eyes. Oh, crap. She wasn’t in a guest room. She was in his room.
In Preston Byron’s bedroom. He just made her come on his bed.
Preston hurried into the guest room near hers. Went straight to the shower. Yanked on the water and stripped. He’d already showered earlier, using one of the many bathrooms in the house, a house that he knew was far too big.
But he didn’t care. Big houses made him feel like he wasn’t being buried the fuck alive.
The water was icy when he stepped beneath the spray. It should have cooled him down. It didn’t. Because he could still taste her. Could feel her against his tongue.
His hand slid down. Curled around his dick.
Her skin had been soft. Smooth. She’d arched against him.
