Sweet Sinful Nights(54)

Her lips quirked up. There, in that small crack in her anger, he had his chance. The door was ajar. He’d slink inside.

“Looked like what?” she asked, her tone segueing away from pissed, and towards that teasing seductress he loved.

“Like the only woman I have ever wanted this much,” he said, resuming his path along her arm, leaving a trail of goosebumps in his wake. He moved his hand to her waist, tracing circles with his thumb against her hipbone.

“How much?”

“So f*cking much it consumes all my brainpower,” he said, relief flooding him as she began to relinquish her anger. “I swear, Shan. When I see you, I can’t f*cking remember my name. I can barely figure out how to form words.” Her expression softened, and he inched even closer, pressing his forehead lightly to hers. “You’re all I see. You are perfection.”

She looped her hands around his waist. Ah, sweet victory.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“For what?”

“For getting so pissed,” she said, her tone sweet and soft now, wafting over him. “I just hate the thought of this night ending.”

“Good. I’m so damn happy you feel that way, because I do, too.”

She wrapped her arms tighter around him, tugged him against her in the cool, air-conditioned hallway. “I was looking forward to spending the night with you,” she said in the barest voice, and it sent tremors of desire throughout his body. “And when you told me you were leaving, it made me feel like you just didn’t care. Like you care about work more than me.”

“I care about you so much more,” he said.

“Brent,” she began, bringing her hands to his hair. “Let’s go to the room. I owe you a dance, and I’m going to make it so good for you.”

That was music to his ears. And his dick. And his balls.





CHAPTER NINETEEN


Inside the room, she grabbed his shirt and furiously began unbuttoning it. She didn’t bother to glance around the room, to take in the surroundings, to comment on the thread count or the mood lighting, or the unparalleled view of the Strip from the floor-to-ceiling glass windows. Nor did he.

He saw nothing but her as they made their way to the couch by the window, where she pushed him down as she finished opening his shirt. She stood in front of him, bent forward, and let her long hair tickle his chest.

Fire burned in his blood. He needed her. Desperately.

“Forgive me,” she said. She was up to something. She had that twinkle in her eye.

“You don’t need forgiveness,” he rasped out as she began to sway, her hips moving seductively side to side. Oh holy hell of a hard-on. She was doing it. She was going to become his f*cking fantasy. He loved nothing more than when she did her stripteases.

She trailed her fingernails down his chest. “How about a little music, handsome?”

He grabbed his phone from his pocket, and scrolled through his music at the speed of light. In seconds, Marcy Playground’s “Sex and Candy” blasted from his phone.

“Perfect for you, babe,” he said as he grasped her hips, and she wagged her index finger, tsking him.

“You know the rules.” She spread her palms over his chest. He inhaled deeply, his body rocketing with pleasure at the feel of her touching him. She glided her talented palm over the hard ridge of his erection, setting off fire after fire inside his body.

She was an arsonist. And she was a tease. She took her hand away.

“No. Tell me the rules,” he said.

“They’re different tonight, since you’re leaving in thirty minutes,” she said, hiking up her dress and straddling him.

His cock throbbed in his jeans. What he wouldn’t give to have her touching him right now. Hands, mouth, *—any or all of the above, please.

“What are the rules then?” he asked, breathing erratically as she moved on him, a stripper’s dance, grinding and teasing to the music.

“No sex, because I can’t bear the thought of you getting on a plane right after. Instead, we’re going to play fantasy night,” she said, swiveling around. She arched her back, her long hair spilling down her spine. Lust pinballed through him with every succulent move she made, every bump of her ass, every sway of her hips, every press of her against any part of his skin.

“Which fantasy? You’re going to need to be a little more specific because I have about twenty million fantasies involving you,” he said, holding tight to her hips as she moved up and down on him.

She shifted off him, and he nearly grabbed her and slammed her back down. Contact. He needed contact with this red-hot woman who was sending the mercury in him soaring to record highs. But she was running the show. She stood and brushed her hand from her breasts, down her belly, to her thighs. He groaned loudly, his right hand dropping to his erection.

“That one,” she answered quickly, eyeing his crotch. “That fantasy. The one where you get off to me dancing for you. The one you told me about in your club.”

He narrowed his eyes. She couldn’t be serious. “You’re here with me, and you want me to jack off instead?”

She nodded, and arched a naughty eyebrow. “I want to watch you touch yourself as I dance. I want to witness how turned on you get just from looking at me. I want to know how you’ve looked for the last ten years when you’ve lusted for me.”