Page 80 of Playboy’s Purgatory

His hand finds the hem of my shirt and glides underneath the fabric. My skin feels charged wherever his fingertips brush. A current; a path.

“Missed you, Cupcake,” he murmurs against my lips when we need to breathe. “Let me make you feel good.”

“Jettson,” his name echoes through the small space.

It lands softly, but it seems to ignite something in him. When he kisses me again, it’s harder with an edge of desperation. He pours his feelings into me, every brush of his lips a declaration, every shared breath a wisp of a promise.

His fingertips slide along the edge of my panties. “Are you wet for me?” The question comes out rough and needy. “I’ve been thinking about burying my face between your thighs for fucking hours.”

“Well, since you came all this way…,” my words trail off as I moan when his fingers find my clit and circle teasingly.

His low chuckle rumbles through me. He kisses me sweetly before slowly sliding down my body until he’s on his knees in front of me. My eyes widen and a rush of power surges through me.

Woah.

There’s something about a man like him getting on his knees for you. Add in the fact that he’s looking up at me with worship in his eyes? I’m in some serious danger.

Not my body; I’ll be enjoying every second of this.

I can tell by the way his hands glide up my bare legs and start to push my shirt up to my hips.

The real danger is to my heart; it’s softening.

I can almost trust him. The tendrils of that feeling are reaching for him. Straining. Finding the connections.

Because he’s become steady. Day by day.

He keeps showing up. When I least expect it. When I need it most.

But could there be another shoe to drop? Lola is involved so of course there’s another shoe.

I just wish I wasn’t the only one who realized it.

Jettson’s fingertips hook into the waistband of my panties and he slides them slowly down my legs. His touch blazes all the way down, reminding me, lulling me.

When he slides his hand back up my leg, he hooks my knee and lifts it up over his shoulder. I’m spread out for him and his brown eyes lock on my glistening flesh.

He doesn’t dive straight in and, instead, takes a moment. Our breathing is loud in the space. Every breath feels like a struggle as I teeter on the edge of begging him to stop teasing me.

His fingertips slide up and down my arousal-soaked slit. As he spreads me open, he leans forward and runs his nose along my thigh and takes a deep breath.

“You smell good, Cupcake, like sweet vanilla,” he rumbles against my flesh.

“Jettson,” there’s a warning in my tone as I plead with him.

“Do you need something?” His question is pure fucking sin.

My hips jerk slightly and he growls. When his tongue swipes through my wetness, from my entrance to my clit, I cry out.

“Shh,” he admonishes me, the sound wicked, “you’ll need to be quiet.”

I whimper as I clamp my lips together. His lips wrap around my clit as one finger plunges inside me. It’s not enough; not nearly enough.

My fingers slide into his hair and grip the strands tightly. As he feasts on me, adding another finger to fill me with and making an ache build in my belly, I rock my hips against his face.

Chasing him.

The feeling.