Bringing Home the Bad Boy (Second Chance #1)(54)

And in no way was she ready to just… just… dive in like he was.

He released her panties and climbed her body, his face scrunching. Angry.

She recognized that face. Russell used to have that face when she refused to go down on him after he’d, as he called it, “rewarded her” with fellatio. One for one, Charlotte. I did you. You do me. You love me, I love you. See how this works?

“I’m sorry, Evan. I think we should talk about—”

“Who said anything about me?”

She focused on his face, which was, indeed, angry.

“Sorry?”

“You think I’m going down on you to get you to return the favor?”

She did think that. That was the way these things worked. Right? Sensing this was not the correct answer, she said, “No. Uh, I um… I realize it’d be wrong of me not to do it to you after you took the time to—”

She stopped talking to gasp, and the reason she gasped was because he’d taken advantage of her distraction and ripped her underpants off her legs and dropped them to the floor.

He slid his hand up her calf, over her knee, and stroked the inside of her thigh. “Is that what you think?”

She answered with an expelled breath.

Keeping his eyes on hers, he swirled his fingers higher. “You think you have to do whatever I do to you? Is that how Russell worked things, Ace?”

She felt her cheeks heat from embarrassment. Her hips lifted involuntarily toward his attentive fingers tracing the sensitive skin on her inner thighs.

“Answer me.” This command was paired with his fingertips touching her intimately.

“We… um, I don’t know,” she hedged.

“Ace.” He dipped a finger inside her, then out.

She shuddered. “I—Evan, please.”

He brought his face close to hers, his fingers continuing their delicious strokes. “Charlie, answer me. Now.”

When he pulled his fingers away, she blew out the answer on three hectic, short breaths. “Yes. We… traded. Stuff.”

“You traded stuff,” he repeated, his hand going still between her legs, his face severe. “He never did something to you without expecting something in return?”

“Um…”

Had he? She thought back to the years they’d spent together. The things they’d done together. Russell had always been one-for-one. He set dollar limits on gifts so they spent the same amount. He insisted on picking the next movie if she’d picked the last. He would slide the black book at the restaurant to her across the table and say, I paid last time, Charlotte. Remember?

And yes, in bed, if he offered a sexual favor, it was presented as a trade-off for what she’d do for him afterward.

Evan’s angry face softened and his eyes roamed her face for a solid minute—or maybe a month—looking for what, she had no idea. He seemed to find it, placed a gentle kiss on her lips, and muttered just as gently, “Hang on, baby.”

She blinked at his unexpected words. “What?”

His smile tipped in the charming, crooked way she loved. He bent his head and said to her T-shirt. “My hair. Hang on.”

She put a hand in his hair and he lifted his face and kissed her again. Against her lips, he said, “Tight. Tug when I do something you like.”

Without waiting for her response, he pulled the blanket over his head and dove between her legs. Charlie hung on as instructed.

And she tugged a lot.


*


Evan’s “guaranteed to make you feel better” Hangover Hash was good. Not as good as what preceded it, but good all the same. They shared breakfast and he did the dishes, insisting she sit and sip another cup of coffee.

She let him do the chore where normally she’d have butted him out of the way. But she was too relaxed and stuffed full of seared red potatoes, perfectly over-easy eggs, and sharp cheddar cheese.

A contented sigh left her lips.

“Glad to hear that.” He dried the last plate and put it into the cabinet.

“I’m sorry I didn’t help.”

The tiny frown denting his brow was offset by the smirk on his lips. “Ace.”

“What?”

“Gonna have to think of a consequence for you, you keep using that word with me.”

She tried to think what she’d said. “What word?”

“Sorry.”

“Most people think it’s polite to apologize,” she argued, her throat clogging as he strutted over.

He tossed the dishtowel over one shoulder and leaned in close. “I’m not most people.” Pushing her hair away from her face, he kissed her tenderly. “Don’t want you to be sorry.”

When he pulled away, she turned her eyes up to his. “What if I do something horrible?”

“Not possible.”

“What if I… um… tell you your latest painting is awful?”

He blew a short laugh from his nose. “Grateful you were honest.”

“What if I told you I didn’t like your Hangover Hash?”

“You’d be lying. Bet the neighbors heard you moaning from across the beach.”

Her face grew warm as she thought of the other kind of moaning she’d done this morning. He noticed. And pointed it out.