Page 167

Forget playing with fire, I’m playing with dynamite. But I can’t bring myself to stop her as she chases her pleasure against me, short little puffs of her breath tickling my skin.

“So close.” She whispers.

I let myself have one minute.

Just one.

That's all I need. I work my hands up her thighs, my thumbs dragging slowly toward her center, stopping only when they reach more lace. Lace that is now soaked.

Triple Fuck.

I wish I would have been the one drinking, because then I would have a reasonable excuse for why my right thumb reaches between us, drags up the center of damp lace and puts pressure on her clit until she cries out.

I pull my hand back like she burned me and bring it to my mouth. Her lips part as she watches with rapt attention as my tongue darts out. I’m already going to hell for this, I might as well taste whatever trace of her might be on my skin. It's barely there, but unmistakably sweet; one little hit and all I know is it’ll never be enough.

She starts to speak.

“Shhh, Laney.” I slide my hand along her jaw, my fingers curling around the side of her neck as I cradle her face. Her pulse beats against my palm. She opens her mouth to argue, but I press my thumb gently against her lips. The same fucking thumb with her on it. Her eyes flick to mine.

“Not another word,” I murmur.

Instead of answering, she presses the softest kiss against the pad of my thumb.

Lost count of fucks.

My grip tightens for half a second before I force myself to ease it. I brush my thumb across her bottom lip one last time, then lean forward and press a gentle kiss to her forehead.

“Tomorrow, Laney,” I whisper. “Ask me again tomorrow.”

Something in her expression softens. By the time we reach the elevator, she’s quiet. And by the time the elevator reaches my floor, she’s pale.

“You okay?”

“Yep.” She lies.

The doors open, I kneel down and pull her boots off before pulling her back into my arms and carry her upstairs. When I ease her down onto her feet, she takes about three steps and stops.

“Oh.” She slaps a hand over her mouth.

“Bathroom.” I get her to mine in time. Barely.

Ten minutes ago, she was in my lap making me question my sanity. Now I’m kneeling on cold tile, holding her silky brown hair back while she throws up.

When she’s done, I wet a washcloth with cool water and hand it to her.

“Don’t,” she groans.

“Don’t what?”

“Witness this.” She presses it to her face.

“Little late for that.”

“This is humiliating.”

“I’ve seen grown men puke through hockey cages.”

She lifts her head enough to glare at me. “That doesn’t help.”