Better When He's Bad (Welcome to the Point #1)(32)
He was right—I didn’t. I was surprised he didn’t cart a pack of them around with him until I remembered the girls he was used to hooking up with had to have them on hand for business purposes. Gross.
“Besides, I can barely move. I asked if you were going to go to bed with me, not if you were going to f**k me, Dovie. I just want you here.”
I needed to argue, to make him let me up, but with a gesture born of pure familiarity with getting women naked, his hand snaked across my ribs and popped the fastener of my bra open. Because my arms were trapped in the straps and the loose material of my shirt, I could just stare up at him in a mixture of apprehension and wonder when he tugged the cups down to fully expose me.
My br**sts were on the large side considering that I was tall and lean. They were dusted with freckles just like the rest of me and crested with ni**les that were the palest pink and, at the moment, puckered and not shying away from those black eyes. This was wrong. He was wrong, but I didn’t have the words or the will to rein it in.
“Pretty. At first I wasn’t sure, but now I can’t believe I missed it.”
“Bax.” It was a warning and a question all mixed together on air escaping from lungs that felt like they were squeezing shut. I wasn’t the most sexually experienced girl in the world, but I knew enough to know that I was restless and achy, feeling heated and light-headed, and he hadn’t even so much as kissed me. He was way more than I was ready to handle, and then he was sliding the button on my jeans out of the hole and my belly was sucking in.
“You have to stop.” Only the zipper followed down and my black cotton underwear that was in no way intended to be on display was suddenly just that. His eyes were like obsidian, his mouth was tight, and I wasn’t sure if the light sheen of sweat beading up on his shaved head was from battling back discomfort or from arousal. I could feel the press of an impressive erection through the denim that separated us, but he was moving slow and had said he had no intention of having sex. He was a liar, though, so I shifted and made a move to cover myself back up.
He used the hand that wasn’t holding his entire weight off of me to snatch my own as I pulled at my bra and the sides of my shirt. I tugged futilely to get him to let me go, but he forced my palm flat on my quivering stomach and trapped it between my skin and his palm. He smiled down at me, and it wasn’t nice. It was wicked and promised all kinds of dark and scary things. It made my breath catch in my throat and I was momentarily stunned enough that it didn’t register that he was dragging my much smaller hand across my belly, below the hollow of my hips, and into the waistband of my underwear.
I panicked a little—okay, a lot—when I realized his intent. I could feel that even though my head knew I shouldn’t be here with him, my body was all for it. I was slick across my own fingers, damp, warm, and pulsing. I saw something in his eyes flare. I struggled to pull away again and it just ended with a broken moan coming out of my throat as he actively forced both our hands farther into my pants and closer to the parts of me that were well aware of what a guy like Bax could offer.
“Tell me to stop.” His voice was low and lost somewhere in the haze of sexual intoxication he was spilling all over me.
“Stop . . .” It should’ve been harsh, sounding sure and defiant, but it wasn’t. It was raspy and breathy because he got my hand where he obviously wanted it and was making me stroke my clit while his thick digit went on a tour to find my G-spot.
“Mean it.” He rumbled the words against the side of my face, where I felt the soft brush of his damaged mouth. I had never experienced anything like this before. I couldn’t escape the drag and pull of it. I arched my back and moved my hand in tandem to his ministrations, never looking away from the velvet drape of his gaze.
I tossed my head to the side and he took advantage of the distraction to suck the tip of one breast into the scorching cavern of his mouth. I heaved up so hard that it drove his fingers harder into me and made me grind my own hand harder against aroused and ready-to-go flesh. This was out of control. I didn’t do things like this, especially not with guys like him, but when he switched his attention to the other breast and added another finger and growled at me to press down on my quivering little point of passion with my thumb, it was all over. I thrashed under him, forgot he was hurt, and used my unoccupied hand to claw at the back of his head where it was latched on to my breast. I lost it all . . . control, sanity, decorum, reality. It all went out the window and I was just a mass of nerve endings and boiling pleasure that couldn’t be contained. It spread all over us, across my hand and his, and I felt moisture build up in my eyes as I scrambled to catch my breath.
He pulled his head up and looked down at me, not with smirking satisfaction or any kind of gloating, but with longing and a hunger like I had never seen before.
“You are so sweet and tight and all shiny and new. Are you sure you’ve done this before?”
I yanked my hand free from where it was still lodged in my pants and put both palms on his chest to shove him off of me. He went, but not before swiping his lingering fingers over my clit one last time. It made me shiver and glare at him as I scrambled back into my clothes.
“I told you, Billy Clark when I was a teenager, and then there was a guy from the restaurant when I first moved here. I’m busy, and typically I’m not interested. We can’t all have strippers and hookers at our beck and call.”