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He growls, literally growls at me like an animal. It’s like nothing I’ve ever heard, and on some primitive level, I’m scared and know I should run for cover from the apex predator with his sights on me. But on a deeper, instinctive level, my blood just started singing through my body, pulsing at a focal point behind my clit.
Holy shit. Maybe it’s a little caveman-ish, but it’s fucking sexy as hell too. Unconsciously, I squeeze my crossed legs tighter, needing some pressure for relief. But he notices. I expect him to start yelling, but instead he just smirks and leans forward again.
His voice is quiet, gravel as he answers, seemingly puzzled by me. “You’re forward, aren’t you? No finesse or foreplay. Just jumping into the question you know is most likely to set me off. No, I’m not dating anyone, nor am I looking to. Maybe the supplies were just so I can be a gracious host. Need a tampon, Elise?”
I can’t help but defend myself a bit. He’s somehow getting to me despite my best attempts to get under his skin. The score is definitely in his favor right now. Needing to get back in the battle for control, I fume. “No, fuck you very much. It’s the reason this all started, that speculation, so why not address it from the start? Besides, foreplay is for people who don’t know what they want, who need to warm up to the idea. I get the feeling that neither of us is like that. I know what I want . . . your secrets. And you know what you want . . . to not tell me. I’m not going to trick them out of you. Just bold honesty.”
He tilts his head, searching my face for something. “Okay. But there’s one thing you’re wrong about.”
I raise an eyebrow in question. “What’s that?”
Keith smiles, but it’s a predatory full baring of his teeth, more threatening and conquering than humorous. “Foreplay isn’t for people who need a warm-up. Foreplay can be the best part if it’s done right.”
He pauses, and I know I’m breathing faster than I should be, considering I’m just sitting on a couch talking, but damn, can he talk. Every word is measured for effect, and I feel more bare than if I’d even answered a question.
The answer is written all over my face, my body. “And are you good at foreplay?”
Keith nods, his smile changing slightly, becoming as seductive as it is confrontational. “Bold honesty, huh? Very. Okay, Elise . . . tell me about your dating life.”
It’s not a question, it’s an order.
I want to be bratty back, call him on his bossiness, but I realize that would be counter to my mission here, so I give in and willingly share. “No, I’m not dating either. I work too damn much, and my last boyfriend was an ass. I’m not hung up on him or anything. It’s been months ago and was casual at best, more like fuck buddies than a real relationship. But I’m just . . . no, not dating.”
He grins, a real one this time. “Point proven. Fuck buddies don’t need foreplay. Just get in, get off, and get out. You’re just not used to getting more. So much more that it becomes a necessity, an integral piece of the bigger action, not something to be rushed through or skipped.” Every word he says is seduction, meant to make me squirm for him and I’m fighting the urge, forcing myself to be still.
I bite my lip, considering his words, my body screaming that it wants more, too. “Well, you may be right. But tell me, Keith. For someone who’s not dating anyone, you sure do have some insight into the inner workings of the human mind and body. How’d you get so . . . smart?”
I stumble at the last second because I almost said sexy, and I’ll be damned if I’m giving him that kind of ammunition, but he seems to know that ‘smart’ wasn’t my first word choice judging by his cocked eyebrow. “I said I’m not dating. Never said I was a saint.”
Before I can ask a follow-up question, the doorbell rings and Keith rises from his seat to go answer it. I can’t help but watch him as he moves with graceful power toward the hallway, returning a moment later leading a guy wearing black pants and a white chef jacket toward what I can only assume is the kitchen. I follow, drawn by both professional and personal curiosity.
As the cook tells Keith about the menu and warming times, I hang in the doorway, taking in Keith’s no-muss appearance. His jeans have ridden down low on his lean hips, showing the waistband of his underwear as he reaches up and his shirt hem raises with his arms.
