Page 67 of Gilt

“I stand corrected.” His mouth glides along my collarbone. Despite the heady cocktail of frustration and desire swirling inside me, I push against his chest in annoyance.

“If we’re going to have a pissing contest, we should do it in the bathroom.”

Jameson straightens and meets my eyes. “You have the wrong idea. I like that you’re innocent. I like knowing that my hands, my fingers, my lips, my tongue, this”— he presses his hard-on into my soft lower belly and I feel it through the layers of clothing separating us —“get to educate you.”

“You sound awfully sure of yourself,” I murmur. The kiss he brushes over my lips proves he has a right to be, and a moan escapes me. He wraps an arm around my waist, and I know two things: he’s caught me and I don’t want to escape. But before the kiss can deepen, he throws open the door behind us. Despite his firm grasp, fear thrills through me in a jolting split second of weightlessness.

“I won’t let you fall,” he promises.

Something tells me I already have.

We stumble back toward the bed, fumbling with our clothes, leaving a trail of discarded clothes in our wake until I’m stripped to my bikini and he’s down to his boxer briefs. A rare bout of shyness overcomes me, and I’m torn between how much I want to rip off his underwear and my inexperience. When I finally get up the nerve to slip my fingers past the elastic waistband, he catches my hands and draws them over my head.

“Not so fast,” he advises me. “I want you to know exactly what you’re getting into.”

“I have a pretty good idea,” I pant, not bothering to hide my annoyance as my shyness shifts into shamelessness instantly. But Jameson keeps my wrists pinned over my head.

“I got you off in the elevator,” he recalls in a lowered voice. “Has any other guy?”

I shake my head, feeling my cheeks flame.

“Then I’m guessing no one has had his mouth on you.”

It takes a second for me to realize what he’s suggesting. I bite my lower lip, and shake my head again, the flush on my cheeks probably turning to a lovely shade of candy apple red. “Don’t be embarrassed, Duchess. I’m going to let go of you now, but I want you to keep your hands up here. Can you do that for me? At least until…”

I nod. I’m not entirely sure what the end of that sentence is, but I have a few ideas about what comes after until. He kisses downward between my breasts past my navel, sliding his hands along the path until they stop on my hips.

I resist the urge to bury my face in a pillow when he plucks the ties of my bikini bottom. He waits for a moment as if letting me get used to the idea of what’s about to happen, then he draws it slowly down. Suddenly I can’t remember if I shaved this morning. Or if I shaved enough. I’ve seen a Playboy, and I know he has, too. I open my mouth to apologize, but before I can speak, I feel the warm wet plunge of his tongue, nudging its way to the throbbing pulse between my thighs. I arch up, lost for words except for a strangled cry that vibrates from a part of me I didn’t know existed. Now I understand what he meant by until because my hands fly to his head, grab hold of his hair and push him against me as his tongue works magic. He reaches up and pries my fingers loose. Gripping my wrists, he pins my arms to the bed. He’s in charge now. I give in to that reality, allowing my hips to move in unison with his mouth. Dozens of half-formed thoughts flit through my head, prematurely dismissed by a flick or suck, each growing shorter as the pressure builds inside me. Before long, I can’t stop myself from bucking against him, and his pleased groan vibrates against my sensitive swollen flesh.

It’s enough to send me crashing over the edge. I’m not sure if the screams are in my head, or if I’m bellowing them out loud. All I know is I can find no other word except his name. When I can’t take anymore, my legs clamp instinctively against his head. Trembles wrack my body and I grip the comforter. I need something to hold on to because I’m not entirely convinced that I’m not dreaming. He frees himself, then he slides his arms under my torso and gently moves me farther onto the bed. I curl into a fetal position—an instinct they don’t tell you about in Cosmo—and blink languidly as he climbs in beside me. I reach a trembling hand toward his waist, but he stops me.

“Not right now. That’s all I needed.” He cradles me to him and presses a kiss to my forehead.

“I…I…” Thoughts are still slow to form.

“Speechless,” he notes with satisfaction. “Rest up, Duchess. There’s more where that came from.”

I blink into the sunlight, then sit straight up, clutching the sheet thrown casually over my lower half. “Oh my God. What time is it?”

Jameson glances up from his phone and smirks. His hair is a tangled mess, and I wonder for a second if it got that way from me trying to pull it out. “Relax. It’s just after four.”

“Oh my God.”

“No, just Jameson.”

I flop back down on the bed, sneaking another quick peek at him as I pull the sheet higher. He flips onto his side, and traces the edge of it.

“I have to say that I find your sudden modesty a bit too enticing.”

I pull it to my chin. “Mr. West, what big eyes you have.”

“Skip to the part where I say, ‘The better to eat you with,’” he encourages me, and I slap his shoulder. He falls back beside me, laughing.

“That was ...” I hesitate, before landing on, “Incredible.”

“Feel free to write songs and sonnets singing my praises.”

“I would, but I don’t think it’s safe for your head to get any bigger.” I turn onto my side, already thinking about round two, until my eyes land on his phone. I stop breathing when I spy the Instagram feed on his screen. “The Dealer should be called The Mood Killer.”