Page 52 of Wicked Fortune

“Oh, believe me, I have.” I think of Dexter and my other guy friends, some of whom are more friendly than others. “There’ve been some guys on my arm now and again, but nothing was going anywhere with them.”

“Well, I didn’t know that. Besides,” he adds. “I’m twenty years older than you. I didn’t think you’d be interested.”

“Oh.” I lick my lips. “You should have asked.” I hold his gaze, then boldly climb onto his lap to straddle him. “Because it’s actually only nineteen and a half years. And I am interested. I’m very interested.”

He shakes his head slowly. “Don’t,” he says, even as his hands move to cup my ass in a way that feels warm and familiar and enticingly naughty. “Don’t play games with me.”

“I don’t play games,” I tell him. My skirt has ridden up my thighs and is now bunched up at my hips. “A couple of decades don’t scare me. I like a man with enough experience to know who he is. Who knows how not to play games.”

“Except we are playing games.”

“No,” I say, though the word is a lie. Or a partial lie, at least. My need isn’t a game. The heat between my thighs isn’t a game. The craving for his mouth on mine isn’t a game.

And yet, this whole night is a game. Because wanting and craving and needing be damned. No matter how I feel about this man, I came here to get close enough to push open the door to his secrets. To find out the truth about Jenny.

And then—if I have to—to bring Holt and anyone else involved down.

But now … oh, god, right now I don’t know anything about the meet-and-greets. I know nothing about what truly happened to Jenny. I have theories and suspicions but no facts I can act on.

The only thing I have that’s one-hundred percent real is the way I feel about this man. The way he’s looking at me. The intensity with which he wants me.

Maybe it’s stupid. Maybe I’ll regret it.

But tonight, I’m going to take it. And I’m pretty sure that Jenny would understand.

NINETEEN

I can’t remember ever feeling so turned on by a man. And it’s not just because I’m grinding against him, his cock so hard I think it will probably burst out of his jeans.

It’s the feel of his hand on my hip. The press of his other hand as it cups the back of my head. His low, guttural groan of pleasure, the sound of which makes me so damn wet.

It’s all of those things, each part making up a wild and sensual whole.

Mostly, though, it’s his eyes. Those vibrant eyes that are locked on mine, as if challenging me to ride him harder. Faster.

“Aria, oh, god, Aria …”

My name from those lips works on me like an aphrodisiac—not that I need any help in that regard. Matthew Holt is the literal embodiment of everything I want in a man. Everything I’ve wanted for years, though I’ve tweaked my mental checklist here and there over the last two decades. Elementary school Aria hadn’t considered the benefits of sensuality. College Aria did.

Strong. Powerful. Sexy. Successful. Protective. This man is everything I’ve craved. And ruthless. And determined. And arrogant.

And dangerous.

Possibly very, very dangerous.

I know my mind’s little voice speaks the truth, but right now, I don’t care. How can I when I’m half-naked, grinding myself against him and edging close to the best damn orgasm I’ve had in my life?

“Matthew,” I whisper, partly because I can’t hold the fullness of this feeling inside me any longer. Partly to shut up that tiny, bitchy part of my brain.

“Oh, baby, yes,” he murmurs, his head bent back as I move my hips, stroking myself against him, the tiny silk triangle of my thong rubbing the denim of his jeans, making me hot and needy and very, very wet.

It’s wild and raw and glorious—and I want so much more. And unless his Academy Award collection includes one for acting, I know that he does, too.

“Matthew,” I whisper. I keep one hand twined in his hair. With the other, I reach down between us to find the button on his jeans.

He stops my hand. “No.”

I whimper. “Please. I want⁠—”