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But she’d come here with a mission, and she’d be damned if she let a few jumbled nerves stop her. She cupped him through his jeans for a second time that night, provoking a growl from him that made her clench. “Let’s get something straight first,” she said.
He gripped the fence above her head, rattling the links. “Sweetheart, if you want to have a serious discussion, maybe you should stop stroking my dick. Because I guarantee I’m thinking only one thing right now, and it involves sinking balls-deep in your tight little pussy.”
She swallowed hard. No one had ever spoken to her like that. Not even her girlfriends. They acted as if she had a shield of purity around her that didn’t include words like dick, balls, or pussy.
But damn, she liked those words. They made her feel sexy. Strong. Empowered. She’d thought she’d never be able to say them back without lots of alcoholic enhancement, but maybe with Bryan…
First she needed to use the body parts in question, then she’d work on discussing them in depth. Preferably while they were naked.
Before she could chicken out, she grabbed his hand and tugged him toward her car. “My place. I have a box of condoms. Party-pack size.”
“There’s a relief.” Suppressed laughter filled his tone. “Let’s take my vehicle.”
“Okay.” She let her hand go lax in his as they shifted directions.
“Wow, no argument?”
She pulled her hand away to retie the belt of her dress. “I’m not in an arguing mood.”
“Good to know.” He unlocked the passenger door of his truck, opened it, and patted her butt before she slipped inside. “Not that it matters much since I’m about to give you all the endorphins you can stand.”
The grin he flashed mitigated her quick flare of irritation. Slightly.
“Oh really,” she said.
He braced his arm on the roof of the SUV, leaning in so that she got a heady whiff of his cologne. Mmm. “I don’t make claims I don’t intend to back up.”
The man really did think he was God’s gift. Too bad there wasn’t a way to shed the burden of her virginity without acknowledging her attraction to him.
The sacrifices one must make.
He drove silently to her place, big wrists draped casually over the wheel. His watch probably weighed five pounds. All that gold and bling. Mr. Money-Bags football player probably had on platinum-threaded boxers while she wore a discount-special corset and two-for-one stockings.
Her breathing sped up, and she pulled on the seatbelt that suddenly seemed way too tight. This was her best friend’s brother. The guy who went through women like underwear and never wore the same pair twice.
Normally, that might have made her pause. But she wasn’t looking for love now. All she wanted was a good hard fuck.
There, she’d said it. Only in her own head, true, but it was a start.
What if their physical liaison made things awkward? Vic’s wedding was in two weeks. And there was the rehearsal dinner. And the reception. And, well, he was Vic’s brother. It wasn’t like she intended to tell her she’d gone for a ride on Bryan’s pony to loosen her saddle. She suppressed a smile at her easy innuendo. Hey, maybe she wouldn’t have to turn in her sex-kitten tiara after all.
There was also the fact that he’d been with some of the hottest beauties in the entertainment business. Gossip Growl Weekly had told her so. Repeatedly. What if she didn’t measure up? If she sucked in the sack, every time they bumped into each other at Vic’s family functions he would remember how she’d been a spectacular dud. Talk about mortifying.
The only way around the potential public humiliation was total secrecy. If it only happened this once, no one would have to know—
His large hand slid up her thigh, his thumb edging along the top of her lace-topped stockings. “You need to leave these on. And the shoes.”
She turned her ankle, frowning. “Shoes in bed?”
His chuckle skated along her overstimulated nerve endings. “Who said anything about a bed, baby?”
Her face heated. Baby. That was a decided improvement over Jilly Bean. “You aren’t discriminating against my bed, are you? I may not be some fancy pants like you, but it’s big and pillow-topped—” Her voice failed—simply failed—as his hand moved higher under her coat and his thumb slid over the panel of satin between her legs.
“Shh. I only want to hear one thing from you right now.”
Searching for her indignation was a futile task. His thumb was circling, drawing little patterns on damp fabric, and she couldn’t think. Holding back a gasp was hard enough. “What’s that?”
He pressed inward, his knuckle finding her clit. His strokes intensified, and she bucked helplessly into his hand. “How many different ways you can moan my name,” he said.
