Wicked Sexy Liar (Wild Seasons #4)(10)

I pull her shirt from her shoulders, down her arms, and unclasp her bra. Fuck, her chest is nice, too. Breasts just bigger than my hands. Flat, toned stomach. She has the body of a girl who unself-consciously surfs in a bikini: curved, tanned, and defined. I want to lose myself in this, want to sense her own relief from it, or even feel some urgency overwhelm her ability to control. For once I want to linger on my bed, lights on, talking nonsense while I kiss all these perfect parts of her.

But I can feel the tension in her abdomen, the way she just wants to move forward, keep going, get there.

Is this how it feels to be with me when I’m distracted and simply need to f*ck?

Bending, I kiss her chin, her lips, parting them with mine. Her tongue is small and soft in my mouth and beneath the tang of beer she tastes like oranges, too. I imagine her reaching for one at the bar, idly sucking on it between mixing drinks.

“Come on,” I whisper, sucking at her lower lip. Give me something. “Touch me.”

She licks my upper lip and a tight noise of want escapes her mouth.

“It’s okay to want this. I want this. You’re not doing anything wrong here.”

A tentative hand slides around my neck, her legs spreading as she pulls me between them and

come on

come on

there.

I feel it, when she softens under me, giving in. Her hand comes up to my face, the other reaching for me, curling around my dick. I harden from her touch, and inhale the sweet citrus smell of her, bending to suck a soft nipple into my mouth, groaning at the way it stiffens against my tongue.

I get to work on her skirt, easing it down her hips.

“Oh, shit,” she says, and then stifles a laugh with her hand.

I freeze, looking up at her.

Goddamnit—of course this will be when she remembers she’s on her period.

“What?” I ask, as calmly as I can.

Her blue eyes stare up at me, wide with playful apology. “I haven’t shaved my legs in . . . a while.”

I exhale, relief making my hands clumsy as I yank the skirt the rest of the way off.

“Don’t worry. I haven’t, either.”

She giggles, and when I look down at her, she’s f*cking stunning. She stills under my attention, letting me look up and down the length of her naked body. Her legs may be unshaven, but I’d never be able to tell. Suffice to say, Logan is a natural blonde, and every other bikini-conscious part of her makes my mouth water.

It’s only when I’m over her like this, positioned between her thighs and registering how entirely relaxed she is being nude before me, that I appreciate it fully: Dimples isn’t here for anyone but herself.

Most girls don’t come home with me solely for their own pleasure. As much as they may insist that’s the reason, they come because they want a relationship, want to be adored. They want me to keep them beyond a single night, to like them beyond what we do together in bed.

But Logan doesn’t seem to really care what I think of her or whether we even see each other again. She’s using me.

I feel the sting of rejection and the warmth of respect at the same time.

She worries that sweet bottom lip with her teeth. “Everything okay?”

I close my eyes, taking a deep inhale of her. “Just looking at you,” I tell her. “You’re . . .” You’re surprising. “You’re really f*cking pretty.”

She doesn’t thank me. She barely reacts at all, only watches me with heavy eyes.

I run my hand down between her breasts—full swells, small pink tips—and across her ribs, lower down her toned stomach. Her hips mirror the movement of my palm, chasing my touch.

“Let me kiss you here?” I ask, drawing my fingers between her legs. She’s soft, wet enough to tempt me but not enough that I’m sure she’ll go off like a bomb the way I want.

She shakes her head a little, smiling that wide-open smile at me. “No way, sir. That’s special.”

Fuck. It is special and for the length of a sharp inhale, it thrills me that she feels that way. But then frustration inches in: the more time I spend with her, the more eager I am to ensure this night blows her goddamn mind. If she’s come to a movie theater to be entertained, I’m going to show her the motherf*cking Godfather.

She reaches down to the cushion by her hip and finds the condom, handing it to me.

“I thought you wanted me to pull out all my tricks?” I tease.

She laughs, a single burst of sound, but the smile stays. “Just come here.”

Shaking my head I tell her, “If we’re skipping the previews, you’re at least putting that on me.”

With a cute little eye roll, she pushes herself up on an elbow, tearing the condom wrapper with her teeth. Slowly, slowly, she rolls it down the length of me and I bite my lower lip, groaning.

Seeing her naked . . . tasting her tongue . . . the warm grip of her hand on my cock and I’m ready to f*ck, but her hands don’t immediately leave me. She touches my cock, my balls, my hips and stomach. Now she’s deliberate, now she’s relishing. Her fingertips explore me, soft and gently tickling up my chest until she curls a hand around the back of my neck, pulling me over her.

“Come here,” she whispers again, kissing my chin, my jaw, my neck.

Maybe I should be in charge; she’s got more innocence buried beneath her steel than she does true cynicism. But I don’t want to lead right now. She reaches for me, slipping me around, playing with the tip of my cock on her clit, and I feel the way my arms shake, planted beside her head. She wants to lead it, wants me to stay still, wants to use this part of my body to feel good. Every muscle along my spine is bunched, every thought banished but the feel of her. The f*cking feel. I watch her face and the million expressions I see tense and relax across it. I’ve never been so wrapped up in watching someone give in before.