Page 33 of The Player I Can’t Pick

“Nicole?”

I open my eyes. “I’m okay.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” I slide my hands up his back. “You feel good.”

His eyes close, and he rests his forehead against mine. “You feel perfect.”

He starts to move, slowly at first like he’s afraid of hurting me. Every movement is controlled, and he keeps looking at my face. “Still okay?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me if you need anything.”

“I need you to stop asking.”

His mouth lifts slightly.

I wrap my legs around him and pull him closer, and something changes in his expression. His eyes darken as he looks down at me. Then he kisses me. There’s something about the kiss that feels different. Like he’s trying to tell me something without actually saying the words. My body starts moving with his, and every slow stroke sends pleasure through me. I cling to his shoulders as the pressure builds again. “Guy.”

“I’m right here.”

He moves a little faster, and I tighten my legs around him.

“Harder,” I whisper.

He gives me what I ask for, but I can tell he’s holding back.

I drag my nails across his shoulders. The pressure inside me grows until I can barely breathe.

Guy slides his hand between us and presses his finger to my swollen clit. “I’m so close. Come with me, honey.”

My whole body tightens, and then the release hits me strong and fast.

I cry out as the orgasm rushes through me, stronger than the first one. Guy holds me through it until his body tenses above mine. He buries his face against my neck with a groan, and I hold him tightly as he follows me. For a few seconds, neither of us moves. My heart is racing, and my whole body is limp.

Guy lifts his head. “Are you okay?”

I give him a tired smile. “Yes.”

He searches my face. “Nothing hurts?”

“No.”

He kisses my forehead before carefully pulling away. As soon as he gets off the bed, I reach for him. “Where are you going?”

“Nowhere.”

He disappears into the bathroom after disposing of the condom. A minute later, he comes back with a warm washcloth. My cheeks instantly turn pink. “Guy, you don’t have to do that.”

“I know.”

Before I can argue, he gently cleans me. No man has ever done this for me before. I don’t know what to do with this kind of tenderness. This is Guy Brody. The man I’ve seen on magazine covers with beautiful women hanging off his arm. The man everyone assumes sleeps with whoever he wants. But right now, he’s acting like taking care of me is the most natural thing in the world.

“Too tender?” he asks.

“A little.”