Page 71 of Lucky Shot

“Good God, you’re . . . gorgeous,” he murmurs more to himself than to anyone and that right there, does the trick. I step forward to give him a closer look. He devours the lace bra and panty set. His eyes blaze at the sight of my thigh-highs with matching lace at their tops. “Sit down on the edge of the bed. Touch yourself. Show me what you wish I were doing to you. Show me what you like.”

My cheeks heat, and my head swims. There’s no room to be shy in the moment. I invited this with my stance on principles and promises, and hell if I’m going to give in now.

I move toward the bed, focused on the movement of his hands, how fucking hard his cock is, and the bright burn from knowing what his cock looks like.

I watch him as I slowly undo my bra and drop it. Then I shimmy my panties down and step out of them so all I’m left with is the thigh-highs and nothing else.

“You know this is torture, right? To see you but not to touch you? To want you but not be able to have you? To wonder what your kiss tastes like?”

I wonder about all the same things. I want them too. But instead, I lower myself to the bench at the foot of the bed and make a show of spreading my thighs. I know how wet I am. I can feel it from the cool air hitting my skin. And by the guttural sound that Hardy emits, he does too.

“Part yourself. Play with yourself. Fuck yourself with those red painted fingernails. Show me. Let me hear how wet you are for me.”

Christ. The man knows how to talk. It takes everything I have not to drop my head back and close my eyes because the feel of my fingers and the heat in his eyes own me. It’s an eroticism like I’ve never experienced and a vulnerability I’ve never felt.

“Like that. Let me see you slide those fingers into that pussy just like I’m imagining my cock doing.”

My body vibrates with sensations: The friction on my clit. The rub over the hub of nerves as I tuck my fingers inside me. The sound of my own slickness mixed with his hand working over his own cock. The intensity shared between us as we watch and want and devour the sight of each other pleasuring ourselves.

Lost in my own bliss, I don’t realize he’s moved so close until he’s between my thighs. I steel myself for his touch. I lift my hips for it. I all but beg for it.

I welcome him breaking my rules.

He stands there with me in his shadow and spread out before him. I sit with bated breath as he leans forward and traces the path of my fingers with his own. Over my clit, down my seam until it dips into my well of wetness.

His groan is as feral as the bucking of my hips into his hand. There’s something so damn mesmerizing having him this close to me. I can feel his panting breath on my face, can see his restraint being tested, and sense his need to throw me back on the bed and fuck me into oblivion.

It’s heady.

It’s mesmerizing.

And when he steps back and uses my arousal as lube to coat his cock, it’s sexy as fucking hell.

That’s what it takes to push me over the edge. One set of my fingers tucked inside me, working myself over. The other kneading at my breast and pinching my nipple. And the vision of Alexander Hardy before me, head thrown back, hand pumping furiously, a groan so intense I can feel it rumble through the room, and the spurt of his come shooting out onto my chest.

The rush is intense as my body climbs to the highest peak and then freefalls over its edge. I orgasm until the breath is knocked out of me and my body changes between tense and fluid in a matters of seconds.

And when I open my eyes, I look up to Hardy staring down at me with his cock in his hand and a look on his face that is part pride, part satisfaction, part arrogance.

“You are . . .” His smile is a mixture of sheepish and devastating. “Incredible. Sexy. Unbelievable. Principled.”

But he let me be just that. Principled. And out of everything that just transpired, that’s what I keep focusing on. He didn’t push. He didn’t pressure. He let me keep those principles no matter how much he wanted more and there’s something to be said about that.

“Hardy. I . . .” I’m sorry? I’m an idiot for saying no? Thank you? Like . . . what do I say now?

“It’s okay.” He brushes hair off my cheek and tucks it behind my ear with unexpected intimacy. “Give me a second. I need to clean you up.”

“I can do it—”

“Stay put.”

He walks away leaving me to wonder what in the hell just happened, but he’s back within seconds with a warm washcloth. He cleans up my chest without a hint of awkwardness and then hauls me up onto the bed with ease before collapsing beside me.

“I’m exhausted,” he murmurs before pulling me against him. “We’ve got an early flight in the morning. Let’s get some rest.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Whitney