Being Me (Inside Out #2)(46)

“Hmmm,” I murmur, helpless to fight the desire his teasing seduction arouses in me. “You can remind me as often as you like.”

His tongue flicks over my earlobe, and he whispers, “How about now? Have you ever had an orgasm in a dressing room?”

“What?” I gasp. “No.” His face is filled with wicked determination. “And no, we can’t.”

He tugs my top shirt up and over my head so fast that I have no hope of stopping him. The instant I’m free, I try to slow him down. “Chris—”

His mouth comes down over mine, a hot, fiery claiming he uses as a distraction to unhook my bra. When he molds his palms to my breasts as he pinches my nipples, I barely contain a whimper sure to draw attention.

Chris reaches for the button on my jeans and I manage a weak “Stop. You said you’d stop if I said stop.”

His deep, sexy laugh ripples through me and my body clenches. “That was last night. New day. New rules.”

“But—”

He kisses me again, a slice of his seductive tongue, before proclaiming, “You will not leave this dressing room until you have a smile on your face.” He goes down on one knee and presses his mouth to my stomach as he had the night before and the effect is just as sizzling. I know where that mouth is headed, and while my mind sees the problem with the location we’re in, my body likes the location he’s at.

That deliciously skilled tongue of his dips into my navel, and I shiver. He smiles against my skin, casting me a heated look. “I’ve noticed you like that.”

“I’ve noticed you can be overwhelming.” And playful and dark, and for that matter a mix of all things contrary that makes me insanely aroused.

Unsnapping my jeans, Chris tugs the zipper down. “I plan to be that and more before we leave.” His fingers slip into the waistband and he slides the jeans downward.

I reach for them but it’s too late to keep them up. “We don’t have time for this.”

“Which is why you need to undress quickly. Step.” He orders me out of my pants, and I do as he says, because having them at my ankles feels ridiculous.

“We don’t have time—”

His fingers stroke my panties aside, trailing the sensitive skin beneath.

“Chris, no—”

“Chris, yes,” he counters, lifting my leg to his shoulder.

“Chris—”

His mouth comes down over me.

“Oh,” I gasp, and my head falls back against the wall as he begins to lick and explore. He is merciless in his exploration, flicking my clit with his thumb while his tongue is delving in and out, over and around. Fingers stretch me, pressing inside me and traveling the sensitive passage. My breath rasps from my dry throat, my hand goes to his head, and he actually lets me touch him for once. This pleases me, and is as erotic as his fingers and tongue working magic together, stroking me, driving me wild.

Blood roars in my ears and I forget everything but the sweet spot he’s touching, and the next. Every place he touches is a sweet spot. Time ceases to exist and the room fades away. A tight, hard clenching begins to form in my stomach and swiftly travels lower. Remotely, I hear my own panting, the soft moans slipping from my throat that I can’t contain and I don’t remember why I should. Chris flicks my clit in just the right place and my fingers tighten in his hair. This spot, yes. Stay in this spot. Heat radiates from that pressure point, spreading like wildfire through my limbs. I arch against him and I pump my hips against his hand, all but crying out for that place just out of reach. My body clenches and my heart seems to still. My vision goes black and the first spasm jerks my body. Pleasure surges through me so deep that I feel it in my bones.

I am limp when Chris sets my leg down and slides up my body. He kisses me, the salty taste of his kiss flavoring my tongue. “Taste you on me. That says you belong to me. Don’t forget it.”

? ? ?

Fifteen minutes later, with too many bags in hand for my comfort, Chris and I exit the store. Ava wasn’t there when we exited the dressing room and for that I’m thankful. Regardless of the throb of my clit to remind me that Chris is as skilled with his tongue as he is with a paintbrush, my discomfort over Ava is still quite intense.

By the time we pull up at the restaurant, I haven’t figured out why. It’s not about distrusting Chris. But there is a gray area in my mind I can’t muddle my way through, and it’s bugging me.

Inside the chain restaurant, a “something for everyone” kind of place, I force myself to forget Ava. Rebecca is who matters and just thinking about what we might find out from the PI has me balling my hands by my side.

The hostess motions us forward and Chris reaches over and pries my fingers apart and slides his through mine. “Relax, baby.”

It’s amazing how well he reads me. “I just want to find out that she is okay and I’m paranoid to think otherwise.”

“I know,” he agrees. “Me, too.”

Two men greet us at the table we’re shown to and I am in testosterone overload. Good-looking, fit, and dressed in jeans and Walker Security T-shirts, they both stand to greet us.

“Blake Walker,” one of them says, offering me his hand. He has long black hair tied at his nape, and intelligent brown eyes that have a been-through-hell depth to them.

“Kelvin Jackson,” the other one, with sandy brown hair that curls at his brow, and bright blue eyes, announces. “I’m the head of the San Francisco office.”