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“Bryan.” She reached down to catch his wrist, stopping at the wild thrum of his pulse under her fingers. This affected him, too. A look at his tense features and hooded eyes as he drove proved that without doubt.
He pulled into a spot at her apartment and cut her a heated glance. “Second thoughts?”
“No. No. I just—”
“Just wanted to gain a measure of control? Wanted to do things at your pace?”
She gave an uneasy nod.
“Sorry, sweetheart. I don’t play that way.” He leaned into her space, drivi
ng her back into the seat. His warm breath wafted over her mouth, as physical as a kiss. “I won’t ever do anything you’re not comfortable with, but if you hand me the reins, I intend to use them. That’s part of being with me, even for one night.”
Before she could fully process what he’d said, he pushed a hand into her hair, guiding her head closer to his. “On your knees, on your belly, against the wall, I’ll take you any way I need. Because I know what you need, too.” Eyes on hers, he dragged his teeth over her lower lip while her breath hissed out. “Do you trust me, Jill?”
“Yes.” She didn’t even have to think about the answer.
“Good.” He smoothed the pad of his thumb over the soreness he’d left behind. The subtle ache in her lip pulsed between her legs, a promise she knew he would fulfill. “Next time, don’t stop my hand unless you’re truly uncomfortable. Definitely don’t stop it when you’re panicked by pleasure. I can smell your anxiety all over you.” He inhaled. “Not all I can smell, either. Your scent’s on my fingers, darlin’.”
She fumbled for the door handle, desperate for air. It seemed to be a recurring problem around him. She couldn’t catch her breath, but that didn’t stop her from booking across the lot.
At the door to the building, she dug for her keys. A moment later, his big hand closed around hers. “Let me.” He fit her key into the lock, pressing his chest to her back. Her nipples pebbled at even that small contact.
“The elevator,” she mumbled, nearly tripping when he guided her inside. Stupid heels. Stupid oxygen deprivation. He was sucking all the air out of the room. The green T-shirt he wore stretched over his miles of muscles. One belly laugh and the fabric would probably rip. Even his jeans clung to his ass like a jealous lover.
“Let’s take the stairs. Where are they?” When she gestured, he turned her in the right direction since her limbs weren’t functioning correctly anymore.
“The elevator will get us upstairs faster.”
His smile over his shoulder as they entered the stairway made her falter. “Anticipation is the best aphrodisiac.”
Not when you’ve had nothing but anticipation for a quarter of your twenty-two years, pal. “Is that why you slip in and out of so many beds? To feel that rush over and over again?”
Something crossed over his face. He moved faster, taking the steps two at a time. “Don’t believe everything you read, Jilly Bean.”
Setting her teeth, she hurried after him, arriving at her apartment only a moment after he did. He unlocked the door, since he’d yet to relinquish her keys, and nudged her inside with a gentlemanly hand on the small of her back.
The instant the door closed, his façade of politeness fell away.
“I want you bent over the counter.” From behind her, he ran his hand up her outer thigh, dragging up her dress with one rough touch. “Lose the dress. Everything else stays on.”
She shivered as his lips caressed the side of her neck. “Counter? In the kitchen?” People did stuff like that, she knew. She wasn’t completely naïve. Just not her. Never her.
“To start.” A light shove on her backside got her feet moving. “Go.”
She tugged off her dress and tossed it on the arm of the couch. “Um, be right back,” she said, fleeing to the bathroom, where she shut the door, flipped the lock, and proceeded to have a panic attack.
This was a good thing. Natural. Needs being expressed and fulfilled. Perhaps a little laughter and conversation, maybe a sedate glass of wine afterward in lieu of the cigarettes she didn’t smoke. He didn’t smoke, either, did he? Of course he didn’t. He cared about his health. Besides, she didn’t care about his personal habits. All she was interested in was his ability to make love.
No. Not make love. Something more primal.
Fuck.
All of the fucking.
She glanced in the mirror, fussed with her hair, blew out a breath. Condom. She grabbed the box from under the sink and fumbled out a foil packet, shocked she was actually getting to use one. She’d never even broken the seal on the box. Things had never progressed that far.
Biting her lip, she thought back to the banana she’d molested in high-school health class. She’d been vexed at getting the latex on the fruit, never mind an actual man with a penis that absolutely matched his football-player-sized body. If those shoe legends could be counted on to be true. She’d also held his corroborating evidence in her hand.
