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I groan and try to crawl off him, but this time an arm slips around my waist, holding me all the way still. “Damn it, Ellie, quit wriggling. You’re like a cat.”
I struggle a moment longer before going still, realizing that in terms of physical strength he’ll win every damn time. “Please let me go. I get that you’re used to these kinds of games, but I’m not. I’m in over my head. Is that what you want to hear? You win.”
He frowns. “Why do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Why do you assume that everything I do is pretend or a game? Why assume that I’ve got no brain, no feelings, no wants and needs just like you?”
“Because you treat everything like a game. The other day you tried to press me to admit I was jealous when you kissed other girls. Today you need to hear me say out loud that I didn’t like seeing you with Brooklyn, all so you can declare victory—”
His hand skates up my back, fisting in my hair as he pulls my face closer. “It wasn’t Gage Barrett the Jilted contestant who wanted to hear that you were jealous. Gage Barrett the man wanted to hear that. Wanted to hear that you want him the way he wants you. Wanted to know that—”
I press my lips to his. A hard, shut up kind of kiss. I pull back and glare at him.
He glares back.
I don’t know who moves next. Maybe both of us, because this time when our mouths collide, it’s not him kissing me, or me kissing him. It’s simply two people who want each other and are done with the games.
His fingers knot harder in my hair, and I return the favor by threading my own fingers in his hair as I press him back against the love seat, my tongue tangling with his.
Gage’s free hand slips under the back of my dress, palming my ass. He groans. “A thong? Are you trying to kill me?”
I pull back just enough to trail my lips over his neck, punctuating the embrace with a quick nip of my teeth.
His fingers flirt over the V of my thong, pulling my face back to his. He pauses before he kisses me again, searching my face. “Are you going to accuse me of this not being real again?”
I smile and press against the erection I’m straddling. “Feels real to me.”
He grins. “Damn straight.”
With impressive quickness, he flips me to my back, pinning me to the love seat with his weight. It’s too short to accommodate me, much less him, but we make do, our hands and mouths exploring everything that’s not covered with clothes.
His tongue runs along the spaghetti strap of my sundress until he reaches the top of my dress. His green eyes meet mine as he drags the tip of his tongue along the neckline of the dress, teasing the very tops of my breasts.
I arch into him, and he slips a hand behind me, easing the zipper down with unabashed ease.
“Wait,” I say on a pant. “I’m not—it’s too soon.”
“Second base,” he says. “Just let me get to second base.”
I can’t stop the giggle. “I was just thinking of second base a few minutes ago.”
He stills and glances up. “It’d better have been in reference to a fantasy involving me.”
I grin. “Nope. Another guy. Backseat of his mom’s Honda.”
“Amateur.”
“Says the guy trying to seduce me in a closet.”
“Trying? Or succeeding?” He answers his own question by sliding his thumbs beneath the straps of my dress, pulling it down.
I’m fairly flat-chested, and the dress is lined, which means—
“No bra,” he says with a reverent groan. He palms my breast, watching as his thumb plays over my nipple.
“Remind me again, what constitutes second base?” he murmurs.
