Page 11 of Playing Hard to Get

Her words hit me like a punch to the chest. “Excuse me?”

“I can’t orgasm during sex. I’ve never been able to. The only way this works,” she said, waving her hand between the two of us, “is if you let me do what I need to do first.”

I wanted to laugh, but I knew that wasn’t the thing that would get her back into my bed. And I wanted her there. Needed to bury myself inside her again.

“What about last night?” I asked.

“What about it?”

“You telling me with all that screaming and moaning, you didn't orgasm at all?”

“I did,” she said, and I was about to give her a triumphant grin. “Just not when you were in me.”

My hand raked through my hair and I shook my head. “When?”

“When I was touching myself.” The girl dug her phone out of her purse, and I could do nothing but blink.

“Did you touch yourself after I fucked you?”

Her eyes shifted to me, then to the phone. “No.”

“While you were in my bed?” She didn’t respond, her eyes on the screen. “Before that?” Vivian’s cheeks flushed the most beautiful shade of pink. “You touched yourself before you came to me.”

When she spoke, her voice was just a whisper. “Yes.”

I grinned and stepped up to her, sliding my hands down her hips to the back of her legs. “Were you thinking of me?”

She closed her eyes. “Yes.”

I slid my hands up under her dress. “Have you ever thought of me before?”

Vivian shook her head but answered with a shaky, “Yes.”

“Did you imagine me buried inside of you?” I asked as I cradled her bare ass in my hands. “Did you scream my name in your fantasy?”

Her brow furrowed, her eyes squeezing tight. “Yes, Mitch.”

“Do you trust me, Vivian? Will you let me make you come?” I slid a finger along her silky folds and pushed inside her.

“It’s not going to happen.” She said it with such force that I wasn’t sure if it was her words or her hands against my chest that pushed me into the hall. Vivian smoothed her dress over her thighs, then brushed past me. Out the door, down the stairs, the phone stuck to her ear.

3

Vivian

“Just bring my bag to my room,” I told my driver as I stepped past him and headed up the wide stone steps toward the door of my home.

Home.

My father’s house.

I was beginning to think I should have come here last night. It would have been better than going home with Mitch.

No. Not better.

Wiser.

There was a reason I didn’t want to come here, though. And he was sitting on the cream-colored couch when I walked into the living room, all handsome and dark, olive skin and black, slicked-back hair.