The Game Plan (Game On, #3)(5)

And he’s watching me. Patient. Calculating. Tempting.

“It’s always the quiet ones,” I mutter before taking a breath. “Okay, I’ll pet your fuzzy face.”

“Hold up.” Without hesitation, he reaches for my drink and takes a sip. “Liquid courage.”

A strangled laugh leaves me. “Because I’m sooo scary.”

“You have no idea, Cherry.”

I think I growl at him. I definitely want to give his precious beard a good, hard tug. But he simply lifts his brows at me. “Get on with it, then.”

This cheeky bastard is totally playing me. And here I am falling into his trap. Because I cannot look away from his beard now. More specifically, his lips, which are parted just slightly. An invitation. A dare.

Shit. I’ve never been very good at ignoring a dare.

I hate that my hand trembles as I reach up to touch him. He stays perfectly still, his arm casually slung on the edge of the booth behind me, his body turned toward mine. But I don’t miss the way his breathing has kicked up just slightly.

I hesitate, shy almost. Hells bells, I’m only going to touch a bit of facial hair. Why does it feel like we’re two kids tucked in a dark corner, playing a game of “I’ll show you mine”?

Annoyed with myself, I close the distance between us.

Soft. His beard is soft. And springy. I didn’t expect that.

Gently I press my fingertips into all that springy-soft mass, stroke it a little. His nostrils flare on an indrawn breath.

I glance at him, search his eyes. He gives me nothing back. So I keep going, running my fingers up his jaw, against the grain. There’s the prickle I expected. Only it feels good, sending little tingles of awareness over my skin, up my thighs.

I swallow hard, press my legs together. Can he tell? I’m too chicken to check. I keep my focus on his face, on his lips, which look so smooth in comparison to his beard.

My own lips part, suddenly sensitive. Somehow I’ve moved closer. I can’t help myself. I trace the bottom edge of his lower lip with my thumb.

Sweet Mary Jane Watson, that was a mistake. The contrast between his soft yet firm mouth and the thick, crinkly beard sends a bolt of sheer, shocking want straight to my clit.

In a daze, I stroke his lips again, following the gentle upper curve, keeping contact with his beard while I do. Fuck, but I can’t stop imagining his mouth moving over my skin. Would I feel his beard when he sucked my nipples?

I’m throbbing now. Said nipples aching for relief. Dex’s warmth is a wall against my chest. I’ve moved onto my knees before him without realizing it, my free hand clutching his shoulder as if I’m afraid he’ll back away.

But he won’t. Not when his big, heavy hand has landed on my hip, bracing me, his fingers clutching in a way that’s a little possessive and a little protective.

I should stop. I tell myself this even as I keep tracing his mouth, the corners of it, his chin. Dex breathes lightly through his parted lips, and each exhale sends a little gust of soft warmth over me.

I want—no, I need—to feel more. And that need has a mind of its own. I feel his shocked intake of breath a second before my lips graze his. God. God, that’s good. Silky-firm, prickly-smooth. I do it again, touching the corner of his mouth, his beard tickling my lips.

A small whimper sounds between us. I don’t know if I made it or he did. Doesn’t matter. I’ve become obsessed with his mouth, taking kiss after kiss, just feeling it.

Jesus, there’s something downright dirty about beards. Fucking naughty. All I can think about now is sex. About other places with hair that’s both soft and wiry. My mind fills with images of this thick, full beard running over my clit and how it would tickle and tease. And it makes me frantic.

I lick into his mouth, greedy, needy, my thumbs bracketing the corners to feel him as I taste him.

Dex’s groan vibrates through his body. A heavy hand cradles the back of my head, his long fingers twisting into my hair. Then he’s angling his head, kissing me back, deeply and thoroughly, as if I’ve woken him from a long sleep, and he’s starving.

Lust rushes through me harder and faster than I’ve ever experienced. It takes my breath, my reason. I can only stroke the sides of his face, press my tender breasts against his chest, and give him what we both want.

He tastes of whisky and sweet vermouth, candied cherries and some mouthwatering flavor I can only assume is his own. I slide my tongue along his to get more of it.

Dex’s chest heaves on a breath, his mouth opening wider to let me in. His large hands cup my ass. Suddenly I’m weightless, dizzy. I land on his lap, straddling his hips. He’s big enough that it’s a stretch. I wrap my arms around his head, grind my center against a rock hard erection that’s truly impressive. Perfection.

He reacts with a grunt and squeezes my ass, spreading my cheeks apart in a way that’s downright lewd and so hot that I whimper, rock into him again.

That we’re basically dry-humping and f*cking each other’s mouths is all I care about. Until I hear a catcall, loud and unmistakable.

“Fuck yeah, man. Give it to her.”

We freeze, our lips still touching. My heartbeat thunders in my ears.

Putting a protective hand at the nape of my neck, Dex turns his head and glares over my shoulder. I can’t help but look too, and find a table of three guys watching us with unabashed interest.