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44
Rick
"No."
"What?" She gapes. "What did you say?"
"You don’t call the shots." I slide my hands down to cup her arse-cheeks. I squeeze, and she gasps.
"Rick, please."
I push her down on my thickening erection, and her pupils dilate. Color flushes her cheeks. She pants, brings her lips down on mine. I allow her to kiss me, allow her to deepen the kiss until her breathing quickens, until the pulse thumps at my temples, behind my eyes, even in my eyeballs, then I flip her over so she’s on her back and I’m between her legs.
She locks her ankles around my hips and throws her arms about my neck. "Please, please, Rick," she whines.
I can’t stop the chuckle that bubbles up my throat. Can’t stop myself from pressing down into the cradle of her core, can’t stop myself from digging the column in my crotch between her pussy lips.
"Oh my god, stop teasing me," she whines.
"I’m not. Not more than I’m teasing myself," I confess.
"Why can’t you fuck me?"
"Because if I do, the way I feel about you, I might get attached, and I can’t afford that."
She seems taken aback. "You don’t want to get attached to me?"
It might be too late, I already am, but I don’t tell her that. Instead, I shake my head. "This isn’t what I had in mind when I asked you to pose as my fiancée. I hadn’t anticipated Grams wanting to attend our wedding." Which, in retrospect, is the height of stupidity. Why wouldn't she?
"Wedding?" She pales. "We can’t get married. I don’t want to get married to you."
A hot sensation stabs at my chest. I push it aside. "Neither do I," I assure her. "It’s why I don’t want to fuck you, either. We need to keep our distance." I take in her flushed features, her parted lips. "We… I need to stop wanting to get inside of you."
She nods, then tightens her hold about my waist. "I agree." She pushes her breasts up and into my chest, and a growl of satisfaction ripples up my chest.
"On the other hand," I reason, "we could take this night to fuck this attraction out of our system."
"Just this night." She licks her lips, and my cock extends further.
"Just this night."
"Just this—" She tips up her chin.
I lower my head and close my mouth over hers. I thrust my tongue in between her lips, and drink from her. The fact that she’s under me, in my bed, at my mercy—open and willing—is an aphrodisiac that fills my veins. The blood drains to my groin. I tear my mouth from hers and straighten so she has to lower her arms to her sides. Then I reach behind me and pull off my T-shirt.
She draws in a sharp breath, drags her gaze down my torso, then reaches up to trace the tattoo over my heart. Her fingertips flutter over the script carved into my skin.
"Diana," she reads aloud. Her forehead furrows. Does she recognize the name? I didn’t see anything to indicate she did the first time she noticed the tattoo. I watch her features closely but there’s only puzzlement in her eyes. "Who’s Diana?"
"My sister."
"You have a sister?"
"Had."
"Oh." She frowns.
I scrutinize her face, but all I see is sympathy and curiosity.
