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“That’s already four things.”
He scrunches his brows. “Hair. Neck. Tits. That’s three,” he states, counting off on his fingers.
I point to my chest. “One. Two. Two tits. So that’s four things.”
“You didn’t use the same argument for your hair. Or your eyes. Or your cheeks.”
“That’s because they’re little. I’d like to think my tits aren’t.”
“That’s not fair. Don’t make me choose one tit over the other, because I find them both spectacular,” he says in all seriousness, as if we’re discussing his favorite movie or band. Not which one of my breasts he prefers. “Can I rephrase and categorize them as a pair of tits instead? Pair is singular.”
I bite my lower lip, trying to reel in the grin lighting up my face. But it’s impossible when Creed’s like this. Most people only know the brooding, quiet man who’s spent all of his adulthood in service to this country. I can’t help but smile whenever I’m treated to this playful side of him.
Can’t help but want more of this.
“I suppose I’ll let it pass this once,” I say coyly. “Mainly because I’m quite interested in learning what’s fourth on your list.”
“Truthfully, there were so many parts to choose from.” His gaze darkens as he stalks toward me, forcing me against my desk. “I love your legs.” He slides his hands along the outside of my legs before cupping my backside and lifting me up. “And this ass.”
I moan as his erection hits that spot I’m desperate to feel him.
But he won’t let me, setting me onto the desk and stepping back. My disappointment is short-lived, though. He grips just above my knees and hikes up my skirt, spreading my thighs.
“But the fourth thing I thought about touching,” he begins, sliding a lithe finger up the inside of my leg, my breathing growing ragged as he nears my center. He leans into my neck, teeth skimming my skin. “Was your clit,” he continues, pushing my panties to the side and pressing his thumb against me. “Making you fucking squirm.”
I pant as I move against him, my body a slave to his touch.
“Of course that brings us to three things I can hear,” he says very matter-of-factly, as if his thumb isn’t rubbing mercilessly against my clit, driving me wild. “Which I think is quite obvious, particularly now.”
“What is?” I swallow hard, trying to maintain the same unaffected demeanor as him. But it’s pointless. Especially when he knows exactly where to touch me in order to push me toward the edge.
Over the edge.
“Your racing heart. Your labored breathing.”
“And?” I circle my hips as I revel in the way he plays me like an accomplished musician does their instrument.
He slips a finger inside me, thumb still pressed against my clit. At the welcome invasion, I release a tiny whimper, too overcome with sensation to stop it.
“That,” he murmurs against my lips. “God, I fucking love that sound.”
I pulse against him, frantic and eager. “What’s next?”
“Two things I can smell.” He buries his face in the crook of my neck, rubbing his nose against my flesh. “The lavender powder of your body wash always makes me smile.”
He lingers there for a beat, peppering soft kisses to my skin. Then he steps back, removing his hand from me.
I’m on the verge of protesting when he hooks his fingers into my panties. I lift my hips, allowing him to slide them down my legs.
His stare trained on mine, he slowly drops to his knees and spreads my thighs even wider, leaving me exposed and on display.
For him.
Closing his eyes, he inhales a deep breath, a look of bliss crossing his expression. “Your desire for me.”
Holy fuck.
This may be the most erotic moment of my life.
