Exes and O's (The Influencer, #2)(79)

I almost choke on my own saliva. He is genetically gifted. Blessed. Exactly zero flaws—to me, anyway. Not even a lazy eye. Or a slightly warped toe. How unfair.

He stands in front of me, and his smile makes me want to melt into nothingness. “Why are you looking at me like that? You’ve seen it before.”

Because I want to grope every inch of you with heedless abandon.

With a featherlight touch, my fingers trace the artwork that adorns his chest. I curve over every detail of the striking gray phoenix that covers the left section of his chest, sweeping onto his shoulder and biceps.

“I love this one,” I murmur. “When did you get it?”

“It was a celebratory one. Right after I got accepted to the fire department.”

Still dancing my fingers over his chest, I catch the set of Roman numerals on his forearm that I’ve never been able to decipher. “What about this one?”

He swallows. “This one is Angie’s birthday.”

I inwardly groan. Must he be so unexpectedly sentimental and adorable? I squeeze my eyes shut, pressing firmly into his flesh. His muscles clench and flex at every touch, his breath coming out in hot, quick bursts, like he’s about to lose all patience the lower my hand travels.

Evilly, I sweep a painfully slow circle dangerously close, around his inner thigh, before snapping my hand away.

“You okay?” he asks, lifting my chin.

“It’s just . . . I have a question.”

His throat bobs with a swallow as he kneels on the mattress in front of me. “Okay.”

“What’s your middle name?”

His muscles relax, and the corners of his eyes crinkle ever so slightly. The rumble of his laughter vibrates into my mouth when his lips touch mine again. “Why are you so random?” he mutters between kisses.

I giggle into him, kissing the tiny patch of skin behind his ear. “I need to know. I have a bit of a personal rule . . . with . . .”

“Right, you can’t touch my dick unless you know my middle name.”

“Hey, I don’t have to touch it if you don’t want me to,” I tease.

“Oh, I want you to. So long as you don’t bite me,” he warns, pressing the softest bite into my neck. “I hear you have a history of biting.”

“Deal. I promise,” I pant, desperate to speed things along. “Now make with the middle name.”

With one smooth move, he climbs over me, pressing my back flat against the mattress. His forearms cage me in on both sides, bracing his weight. “It’s James,” he whispers as he pulls my right thigh over his chiseled waist.

“Trevor James Metcalfe,” I repeat, loving the way it rolls off my tongue.

“Say my name again,” he orders, his voice low and gravelly.

I do as I’m told, three times over.

“There is no one like you, Tara Li Chen.” The warmth of his breath tickles against my neck as his hand sweeps down the valley between my breasts.

Gently, he pushes my other thigh open. The coolness of the air sends a tingle through me, settling in my belly. Without hesitation, he tugs the lace of my thong aside, not bothering to remove it completely before smoothing his fingers over me with the precision of a heart surgeon. He lets out a garbled string of curses when he feels how much I want him.

“Yes,” I say through a sharp intake of breath, fighting an embarrassingly dramatic quiver. All my thoughts burst into mist and nothingness. I’m gone. Down the rabbit hole. Already lost in wonderland as the friction builds with each swipe of his finger.

“Does that feel good?” he whispers, easing one finger in, followed by a second.

“Mm-hmm,” I manage, clipped, as I clench around him, rocking against him in a slow rhythm. My nails grip into his back, probably leaving scratch marks on his perfect skin.

He’s mumbling a bunch of things I can’t fully hear down there, about how sensitive I am to his touch. How tight I am. How wet I am. How much he wants me. And when he says, “Tell me what you like,” he nearly sends me over the edge.

I’ve had exes who’ve asked me for instructions during sex, almost to the point of ruining the mood. But it drives me wild when Trevor asks in that rough, primitive voice that grabs hold of my insides. There’s an air of confidence that tells me he doesn’t truly need instruction. He knows exactly what he’s doing, moving at the perfect pace and angle, cherishing me, taking care of me like I’ve never been cared for before.

“I think you already know. Somehow you know. Maybe you’re a psychic,” I say through a half moan, half gasp.

“No,” he mutters. “I’ve just had months to agonize over it. Over you. Walking around the apartment in those little sweaterdresses. Running from the bathroom to your room in your towel when you think I’m not looking. It’s been a lot of long, cold showers.”

“Really?”

His gaze incinerates me on the spot. “Did you not notice how long I have to wait before getting out of the hot tub after you? You’ve been driving me fucking wild.”

At his words, I buck unexpectedly against his hand, clenching around him. “Trevor, that feels so good. So good.”

“You have no idea what you do to me.”

“I’ve had a couple dreams about it,” I admit. Or ten.

He smiles. “Dreams like this? Care to elaborate?”