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God, what is it about him?
Just the simplest of touches from this man and my nerves light up like a Christmas tree. My body feels greedy for more of whatever he has to give that it’s practically searching for the devil himself, ready to make a deal. It’s thrilling and disconcerting at the same time, but holy moly, I’m digging the adrenaline rush it provides.
Up to the VIP area of the club, Jude flashes a little grin in my direction as he pointedly directs us to a familiar spot—the private rooms. And it’s not just any room. It’s the private room, the one I first met him in during Belle’s bachelorette party.
The room is empty, save for the two of us, and when he closes the door with a resounding click, my hands shake, and a throbbing, anticipation-filled ache starts to build between my legs.
Set up a press conference and alert the media because my body is officially at war with itself. Nerves and excitement both creep forward with stealth and precision, hoping to overtake the crucial heart-shaped overlook in my chest. I’m already two halves instead of a whole, and for all intents and purposes, nothing has even happened yet. Sweet baby Jesus. I’ve only had a handful of encounters with Jude, and yet, I already feel like Pavlov’s dog, where Jude is the bell and hearing it ring means I’m moments away from mind-blowing pleasure.
I stand in the center of the room, my body facing the plush couches that line the wall.
I don’t know how long I’m just standing there, waiting, anticipating, but it feels like an eternity until Jude comes up behind me. His chest presses against my back, and he places two warm hands onto my bare shoulders.
“Do you want to know what I’m thinking about right now?” he whispers into my ear, and his warm breath brushes against my neck.
I shiver. Nod my head.
“I’m thinking about the first night I met you,” he answers, his voice the kind of deep and husky that turns my mind into a one-track loop of hot sex and dirty, wicked things. “The night I made you come without removing a single item of your clothing. Without sliding my cock inside you. Without even putting my mouth on your sweet-as-fuck pussy.”
I should probably be mortified that he knows about that, that my body’s reaction to him on the night of Belle’s bachelorette party was that freaking obvious, but I can’t seem to find the strength or concentration for mortification right now. All I can do is wait with bated breath over what he’s going to do and say next.
Jude Winslow is a wild card. I can’t anticipate his next move any more than I can anticipate the first drop of rain on a stormy day, and right now, I have to admit that it’s addictive.
It goes against everything I normally do or say or think about—it defies every previous reaction and response I’ve ever had toward the men who came before him. But I don’t have control over it. All I seem to be able to do with him is experience the present.
The past. The future. For some reason, they don’t exist when he’s around.
With him, it’s only the here and now. And man oh man is that a really wonderful thing for an overthinker like me.
He releases his hands from my shoulders, stepping away from me, and immediately, my body feels discomfort from the loss of contact. My lips quirk down at the corners, but my gaze never stops studying him as he steps in between me and the couch.
In rapt fascination, I watch as he removes his black suit jacket, tosses it onto a velvet sofa, and sits down. He rolls up the sleeves of his shirt, and I find a sick amount of enjoyment from seeing his strong, sculpted forearms come into view. They’re tanned and muscular, and thick, corded veins can be seen beneath his skin.
Instantly, my nipples turn downright traitorous and harden beneath my dress.
Seriously? How can a man’s forearms turn you on like this?
Honestly? I don’t have a clue, but I’m certain of one thing—this man looks like a god just sitting there on the couch. The first two buttons of his crisp white shirt are undone. His arms are stretched out wide across the back of the sofa. And his crystal-blue eyes glisten with filthy secrets that I’m desperate for him to tell my body.
The ache between my thighs grows more demanding, but I’m helpless to do anything but keep standing there, in the center of the room, looking at him, while the vibrations from the house music from the inside of the club provide a rhythmic, heady soundtrack.
He crooks one finger in my direction. “Come here, sweet Sophie.”
I swallow hard against the pulsating eagerness that’s building inside my chest.
