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The dark chuckle that vibrates through the line sends goose bumps skittering across my skin.
“Now, if I’d decided you were a good kisser, I was going to lead you into the shower.”
“The shower, huh?”
“Not my apartment, remember? I can’t bring a guy into my friend’s bed. And truth be told... I love being fucked in the shower.” When he moans, I squeeze my thighs together. “I love the water running over my skin, and the way the tiles feel cold against my palms as I brace myself. I love being clean and dirty at the same time.”
“I think you’re dirty to the bone, Blondie. No shower is going to fix you up.” He grunts. “And bloody hell it’s sexier than anything.”
I’m warm now and I push the blanket back, letting the cool air prickle over my skin. I wish he was here, hands on my thighs while he lowered those full lips to the pulsing spot between my legs. “I would have invited you into the shower, stripped down while you watched and climbed in to give you a show.”
“Like on the balcony.” His breath comes a little quicker now.
“Just like that, but with no T-shirt and no underwear so you could see every part of me.” I pause, making him wait for one heartbeat. Then two. Three. I’ve got him hooked. “I’d give you a show and get myself all warmed up for you. Then I would have told you to strip down and join me.”
“What then?”
“I’d tell you to get on your knees and show me how you use that tongue.”
“Fuck,” he grunts. “I bet you taste sweet as honey. I would have loved feeling those beautiful thighs clamp around my head.”
Now it’s my turn to stifle a moan. Having a big, strong man on his knees for me is my personal catnip. I love a guy who enjoys oral sex—both giving and receiving. Like I said, orgasms for everyone.
“Do you like to be taken from behind?” he asks, his breath sharp and quick.
“Yes,” I hiss, fighting the urge to touch myself. I’m going to need one hell of a cold shower after this is all done.
“You want to feel my hands on your hips as I push my hard cock into you? I bet you’d look like a goddess with all that gorgeous hair tangled and running down your back.”
“I’d ask you to pull it, Mr. Suit. I like it a little rough.” I can hear that he’s close now. Just like I was last night as I touched myself in front of him. So close. “I’d want to feel that last hard thrust before you came, calling my name so loud the whole building could hear.”
“Blondie.”
There’s a groan and I feel the pleasure of it all the way down to my toes. He curses again and the sound is pure. Raw. I wish for a second that I’d gone to knock on his door instead of leaving a note—so that I could be wrapped in his arms. So that I could feel the hot press of his body and the warmth of his lips against my skin. The fullness of him inside me.
There’s a keening sound on the other end of the line and I know it’s over. For him, at least. Frustrated energy makes me squirm on the couch and I have to force myself not to go to him. He had his chance—this is simply fun and games.
“Was it good, Mr. Suit?” My voice is rough with desire and my body is coiled tighter than a spring.
“Not as good as if you were here.” His breath is starting to even out. “Not even close.”
“You had your chance,” I tease. “Good night, Mr. Suit.”
“Good night, Blondie.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Drew
SATURDAYMORNINGISthe final fitting for the bridesmaid dresses, and I am living my worst nightmare. I promised myself that I wouldn’t say one negative thing today—not about the other bridesmaids, not about the fanfare, not about the fact I feel like I’ve stepped out of a Barbie display.
The dresses are pink, of course. With these off-the-shoulder sleeves and delicate line of beading at the waist, floor-length skirts and bodices fit for Grecian princesses. Apparently, I was supposed to bring a pair of high heels to wear with the dress, but I must have missed that memo. Maybe it was in one of Sherilee’s forty-five footnotes.
Ha.Footnotes...get it?
My guess is they wouldn’t, so I keep my mouth shut.
“How’s everything going with the Jack and Jill party?” Annaleigh asks as we stand around while the dressmaker pins the hems. I get a grunt of disapproval from the older woman when she spies my Doc Martens peeking out from under the frothy pink fabric.
