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I laugh. “That sounds like a super weird fetish. Anything you want to confess? Now’s the time.”
He gets up and retrieves a condom from his wallet, shooting me a look over one shoulder. “Theonlykinky thing I have on my radar right now is the idea of that dirty little fantasy you shared with me the other night.”
Oh yeah.That.
I’d almost forgotten I’d told him about that. I bury my face behind my palms. “Can I blame it on the heat of the moment?”
“No way. You’ve cursed me with nightly dreams about it.” When he faces me again, he’s already rolling the condom down himself. I watch the way he handles his erection, sure and confident. When he catches me looking, he runs his fist up and down in a way that has my thighs squeezing together. “Yeah,cursed. I can’t think about anything but you in a pretty little dress, your hair all sweet and nice and your innocent eyes on mine while we sit outside in a park.”
DearLord.
He kneels on the couch and then crawls over me, and I snuggle against him, wrapping my arms around his waist and opening my legs for him. Inviting him in. But he only rubs against me, dragging the latex-covered tip of his cock through my wetness. Taunting me.
Getting sexy revenge.
“I keep thinking it’ll be warm, maybe the sky is starting to get dark.” He nuzzles my neck and I squirm with anticipation beneath him. “There are lots of people around, going about their business.”
“Yes?” I look up at him. His eyes are hooded, dark. He’s losing himself in the fantasy and dragging me down with him.
“Then I’ll flick the switch in my pocket and that sexy little contraption will start vibrating against you. Or inside you.” His voice is rough as asphalt. Ragged and broken. “You’ll have to press those sweet thighs together so it doesn’t make too much noise. And you’ll have to pretend like you’re not on the edge of coming the whole time. But you’ll be soaking through your underwear and that pretty dress and you’ll be begging me to finish you off.”
Holy hell.
I rock up against him, moaning like I haven’t just been brought to orgasm. Like I haven’t had sex in a decade. That’s what he does to me.
“Please, Seb. Put it in me.” I dig my nails into his back and he grunts. “I need you.”
He finds my entrance and hovers there, making me wait. Showing me who’s in charge. “Every fucking night, Presley. Every night I’ve been thinking about you. Dreaming about you. And I shouldn’t... I shouldn’t...”
“I know.” It’s bad. Wrong.
And so right.
When he pushes inside me, it’s like a fireworks show—colourful and glittering and beautiful. He thrusts all the way in, seating himself as deep as he can go. Claiming me.
I press my lips to his neck and squeeze all around him. Our mouths find one another and it’s frantic, hot. Fast and a little angry. Frustrated and perfect.
I reach behind me and grip the arm of the chair, matching him stroke for stroke. He rocks into me, not taking the time to be delicate or to pace himself. I don’t want it slow. I want it raw and honest and I want him to mark me forever.
“You’re in my head,” he rasps against my neck, his hand finding my breast and squeezing. Pinching. There’s a flash of pain that’s immediately soothed with something warm and good. “Why are you in my head?”
I pull his face to mine and bite at his bottom lip. He groans and I catch the sound by locking my mouth on his, trapping the noise between us. It’s hot and heavy and, before I can even comprehend, he hits a spot inside me that’s like a trigger. I’m going off, shaking and gasping and clenching. Normally, I need a little more help to get going, so this catches me out of the blue.
But the orgasm is swift and strong and I cling to Sebastian as he picks up speed, driving hard, chasing his own release. When he thrusts into me for the last time, I cradle his head and let myself drown in how perfect it is.
He whispers my name and I’m struck with this awful, horrible, no-good feeling that if I’d met Sebastian first, I’d probably be happily married right now. Becausehewould never treat a woman badly. He would never use and discard someone.
“I almost regret that we did it in a dark room the first time,” he says a moment later, after our breathing has returned to normal and we’re still wrapped up in one another. “Watching you come is...everything.”
“Do you only regret that it was dark...or that we did it at all?” I already feel vulnerable, bad thoughts swirling like vultures in my head. And this question is no better than pulling the pin on a grenade.
His face goes serious in a flash and I see my own concern reflected in his dark eyes. “I probablyshouldregret it—I’m trying to rebuild things with my family and I’d be drawn and quartered if they found out I was sleeping with you.”
“Same,” I whisper. “But I can’t seem to regret it, either.”
“Why me?” There’s that wariness again. “You could have had anyone for a rebound.”
“I like you.” Saying it out loud is scary—I’m admitting too much. I’m being vulnerable when I should be doing everything in my power to keep building that wall against my heart.
