Beauty and the Billionaire (Billionaire Boys Club #2)(39)

“I . . . don’t know what boy shorts are.”

“Then yes, they’re incredibly, ultra sexy.”

“Then I shouldn’t rip them.” He was starting to get the hang of her teasing. In the darkness, it was a bit easier. Maybe she’d known that, and that was why she’d insisted on the lights being off.

He reached for her on the bed and, after a bit of awkward fumbling, touched a soft material that crossed over her thighs. He hooked his fingers into the waistband and began to drag them downward, his mind full of thoughts of earlier this afternoon, when he’d done the same thing and buried his face between her legs.

She’d liked that. God, he’d liked it also, but he had to pace himself. Had to. He intended on making this last long enough for him to get his fill. He might never have such an opportunity again. So he slid them down her legs and tossed them onto the floor.

His mind was suddenly filled with images of Gretchen, stretched out and nak*d on the bed. For him. His c*ck was rock hard in his boxers. She’d said he could explore her. Would it count as exploring if he ripped off his own boxers and sank deep inside her? No. She’d given him permission to touch. No more, no less. He’d take that and be grateful.

“You’re quiet,” she said.

“Just thinking.”

“Uh-oh. Good thinking or bad thinking?”

“Thinking about you. Good thinking.”

“Sexy thinking, I hope.”

“Thinking about where to touch you next.”

“Wellllll,” she drawled. “I’m told my feet are quite ugly. I’d advise against heading in that direction.”

“Nothing on you is ugly,” he said, meaning it. He’d change nothing about her.

“Perhaps you did not see my feet,” she said, amused.

He reached for her foot, determined to prove her wrong, and cupped her heel. He was immediately distracted by the size of her foot. She was small in comparison to him. His thumb ran along the underside of her foot, and then he slid his fingers over the arch. “Feels lovely to me.”

She shivered underneath his touch. “Your fingers are ticklish.”

“Should I stop?”

“No. It’s not a bad ticklish. Just . . . makes me shiver.”

Hunter felt an insane urge to lean in and kiss the top of her foot. Would her skin be soft there? He leaned in and brushed his lips over it to find out.

Her breath whooshed. A soft moan touched his ears. “Oh, okay. That feels pretty good.”

His fingers slid up her calf, exploring her skin. “You’re very soft, Gretchen.”

“Mmm, yeah. I’m pretty soft all over, I hear. All those hours at the computer and stuff. It doesn’t exactly lend itself to tons of muscles. Gardening seems to be working for you, though. That’s one amazing six-pack I saw when you got out of the shower.”

Her endless chatter was light and irreverent, and he suspected she was keeping up a steady stream of conversation to keep him at ease. It was working, too. He chuckled. “I don’t just garden, you know. I have a gym and I work out daily.”

He felt her shift, and she was suddenly sitting up in the bed. Her hands reached out, patting his shoulders in the darkness. “Holy crap, Hunter. Did you just laugh?” Her searching fingers touched his cheek. “I’m so bummed. I finally got you to laugh and I didn’t get to see it.”

Hunter stilled under her touch. Her fingers were touching his scarred cheek. The urge to push her hands away was strong, and he had to fight to remain still.

Her fingers hesitated on him. “Does this bother you? My touch?”

Yes, he wanted to say. He forced himself to swallow and answer instead, “Go ahead.”

Her fingers lightly touched his cheek again, tracing the line of his jaw, and then moving over the crease of one of his deepest scars. She continued, moving to his mouth and where the line of it extended unevenly. It’d been reconstructed during surgery, and he knew it twisted his smile. That was one of many reasons why he never did smile.

“I don’t find you ugly, Hunter. No one who knew you could.” Her voice was achingly soft. “If anything, I’m grateful that you have these scars, because they saved you for me—for this moment in time. And that’s a little selfish of me, isn’t it? And yet I can’t help but feel that way.”

His heart ached with the sweetness of her words. Hunter reached for her, cupping Gretchen’s cheek in his hand and drawing her forward. He wanted to kiss her. Their noses mashed together awkwardly, and he heard her giggle. He didn’t care. He liked that nothing was ever serious to her—it made him feel like there was less pressure on him to be perfect, to do this right. His Gretchen wouldn’t mind.

Hunter’s mouth slanted over hers, his lips placed in haphazard fashion against her own. It didn’t matter—she still tasted sweet, her lips soft. This time he was the aggressor, sucking on her lower lip until she parted her mouth, and then he stroked his tongue inside.

She moaned, and her tongue met his. Her hands curled in his hair, and she pressed her body up against him, even as they continued to kiss. Her n**ples scraped against his chest, and his breath exploded in a rush.

She gasped, pulling back from him. “Too much?”

He groaned. It had almost been. Pressing a hand to his forehead, he took a moment to recover. Her fingers stroked and petted him, trying to comfort. Instead, it was just driving him crazier. He pried one of her hands off him and kissed her palm. “Isn’t this supposed to be on the headboard?”