Diary of a Bad Boy(36)

“Why?”

I shrug and then take another bite.

“Roark McCool, tell me three facts about yourself.”

I lift a brow from her attempt to be strict. “Do ya really think that’s going to work?”

“Yes, I do.”

I give her a brief smile before turning back toward my dinner. “It didn’t.”

She groans, and it sounds sexier than what I think she intended. Either that or my libido is shot through the roof right now and anything she does is going to be sexy—even if she plucked a piece of hair from her head and started flossing beef out of her teeth with it.

“Fine, I’ll tell you three things about me.”

“Not necessary.”

“I got my first period in sixth grade—”

“What?” I cringe. “Why is that a fact you tell people?”

Startling herself, eyes wide, she says, “Honestly, I wasn’t expecting to say that. I don’t know why I did. But now you know.”

“I didn’t need to know.”

“Consider it a fun fact.” She shrugs. “I’ve only had sex with two guys.” She slaps her hand over her mouth, looking absolutely mortified. A fit of pure rage starts to climb up my spine as I think about the two possible guys who had sex with her. “Oh God, I really don’t know why I said that. I’m nervous and when I’m nervous, I say the first thing that comes to mind.”

Controlling myself, I nod, not wanting to dive into the whole sex thing, because there are too many questions rolling around in my head. Way too many things I want answered like: did they make her come on their tongues? Did they worship her perfect breasts for hours on end? Did they appreciate the little moans I know flow past her lips when she’s turned on . . .

“That was so unprofessional of me. Here I am, scolding you for being unprofessional and then the first meeting we have I’m telling you about my period and my sex life, well, lack thereof. It’s been a while since I’ve been with a penis. Or a good penis. Not that you need to know that. You don’t.” She bites her bottom lip. “It was small, the last one, really, really small, and I know it’s not about the size, but I feel like it barely went inside me—”

“Stop.”

She nods. “Okay.”

We both turn back to our food, my mind whirling with her oversharing.

Small penis.

Been a while.

Lack of sex life.

Fucking hell, my arms are itching to swipe this table clean, toss her up on it, and show her exactly the man I am: greedy with an appetite.

“What are you thinking?” She presses her hand against her forehead. “I’m so embarrassed right now. I can’t sit here in silence.” Clearly. “Just tell me what you’re thinking.”

I chew on my dinner and grind out, “You don’t want to know.”

“Yes, I do. Anything to get my mind off this embarrassment.”

I cut a sharp look in her direction and say, “You. Don’t. Want. To. Know.”

“Oh,” she shies away. “Okay.”

More silence.

If she’s wearing underwear, what kind is it? Thong? G-string? Lace to match her bra? What does her ass feel like? Firm? Our conversation about anal play jumps to the forefront of my mind. God, she’s never done it before. Would she like it? Even if it was just a little bit or probing, would she like it?

“Your jaw is clenched really tight. Are you okay?”

No, I’m not fucking okay. I’m hard as a rock with no promise of release for at least a few hours.

“Fine.”

“You don’t seem fine. There is a vein in your forehead that’s starting to look scary. Are you tense? Do I make you tense?” She leans forward, her sweater dropping so I get the perfect view of her tits encased in her black lace bra.

Son of a bitch.

I push away from the table, startling her, and head straight for the bar where I hide behind the counter and pour myself two fingers of whiskey.

“Hey, what did I say about drinking?”

“I need some.”

“Really? You can’t wait that—”

“Sutton, just shut the fuck up for two goddamn seconds. Okay?” I grip the back of my neck, pulling on it hard, trying to ease the heavy flow of blood heading straight to my cock.

This has never happened to me. I’ve been horny many times, and I’ve wanted plenty of women, but nothing like right now. Nothing so intense that I feel like I’m going to burst out of my own skin with need. And I don’t know if it’s because she’s off limits, or if it’s the innocence dancing around her, but with every word that drips from her lips and every flick of her smooth little fingers, I want her more and more.

“Don’t be mean, Roark. Please.”

She goes to stand, but I point my finger at her sternly. “Do not get out of that chair.”

“Why are you being a jerk right now?”

“Because . . .” I yell, losing all sense of control. It’s the sweater. That goddamn perfectly appealing sweater that shapes every sexy piece of her chest.

“Because why?”

“Because, Sutton, I’ve never wanted to fuck someone as bad as I want to fuck you,” I shout. “You wanted a fact about me, well there you go. I think you’re fine as fuck, and if I’m moody with you it’s because I want you.”