“If I didn’t have to get up so damn early in the morning and head up north for a job, I’d be on my way over,” he promises.
“What would you do when you got here?”
It’s a loaded question, one that will only make it harder that he’s not here tonight. Not that he would be here all night anyway. He doesn’t sleep here. He won’t. He’ll come over, but I always wake up in my bed alone.
“I’d hope you’d be wearing that yellow silk robe that isn’t long enough to cover your ass,” he says, a grit to his voice that’s as smooth as it is rough. It reminds me of his hands—soft enough to caress, yet coarse enough to cause my body to fire on all cylinders. “I’d find you standing in the kitchen, watching porn on your phone.”
“No, you wouldn’t!” I giggle. “I don’t watch porn on my phone.”
“This is my little fantasy,” he teases. “Don’t interrupt.”
“Fine. Continue on,” I say, propping one leg up on a neighboring chair.
“I’d walk in behind you and almost lose it when I see you with your hand between your legs. Your head would fall back just a little as you moan like you do when you’re turned on. I’d wrap your hair, still wet from a shower, around my fist and tug your head back just a little more so I can bury my face in the crook of your neck.”
The whimper that passes my lips isn’t intentional, but I couldn’t deny it if I wanted to. The thought of his hands on my skin, his breath against my cheek, his cock rock hard and long against the small of my back, has me shifting in my seat.
Lifting the hem of my floral-print dress, I move aside the lace of my panties and feel the heat and wetness radiating from between my legs.
“I’d kiss you right behind the ear just so I could feel you shiver against me,” he breathes. “Smelling your vanilla perfume mixed with the scent of you all turned on would make me so fucking hard.”
“And me so wet,” I whisper.
“I lay my hand over yours,” he continues, “my fingers holding yours in place. You breathe in, the top of your robe falling open so I can see those big, round titties swollen for me, wanting my mouth on them.”
“God, Dom,” I groan, spreading my legs a little wider. Flicking at my engorged clit, the sensation makes me gush a breath of pure need.
“What are you doing right now?” he whispers.
“Ah,” is my response as I roll the nub with my thumb, my eyes squeezed closed imagining it is Dominic’s hand on me and not mine.
“Are you touching yourself, Camilla?”
“Fuck,” he hisses. “Do you wish it were me?”
“I’d shove your robe up, bend you over the table, and bury myself inside you so deep you almost can’t take it. Would you like that?”
“Yes,” I almost moan. My back is now arched, my breathing heavy and panting, as I replay two days ago when his words tonight were almost a play-for-play.
“I love the way you squeeze around me. Your little pussy almost milks my cock, begs for it. Do you know that?”
My eyelids squeeze together harder, almost painfully hard, as I touch myself in just the right way. The burn begins low in my stomach, the rumble getting louder with each and every movement of my hand.
The lace of my panties causes friction against the back of my palm, just another bit of sensation that sends me on a spiral higher and higher.
“Think of how good it feels when I hit that spot in the back of your pussy,” he coaxes. “The way you let loose. How your legs shake as you flood my cock with so much fucking juice that it almost shoves me out of you.”
“Dom,” I utter through clenched teeth as the tremors of my orgasm start to hit me full-on.
“You coming, baby? You coming thinking of me buried inside you?”
My body hums at the imagery he’s painted for me, the thought of him doing all of those things sending me on a high that could only be topped if it were him doing them.
Sucking in a breath, I hear him follow suit, as I whimper at the aftershocks of my climax. My legs relax, the riot in my stomach eases, as I let my head fall back with a contented, satisfied sigh.
He’s standing in the doorway, one hand on the sweatpants that hang just below his chiseled hips and the other leans on the frame. The tattoos that mark his flesh are vivid against his bare skin, making the blues of his eyes shine.
He flashes a lopsided smile my way. “Took you long enough.”
“I don’t drive like a bat out of hell,” I laugh, stepping past him. “Did you shower already?”
“Yeah. I smelled like gym floors.”
“As long as you don’t smell like gym whores,” I say, setting the bags on the table in the kitchen.
His laugh is contagious and I feel myself smiling. A set of arms cage me in from behind, grasping the table on both sides of me. My skin breaks out in a shiver as his lips find the sensitive spot behind my ear.
His face buries in the crook of my neck and he takes a long, leisurely breath. “You smell so good.”
“Keep doing that,” I say, relaxing my head onto his chest.
“Talking with your mouth against me.”
“You like this?” he asks all breathily so that each word whispers across my skin.
My eyes fall closed as I relish in this moment of nothing but him. “No, I love this.”
“Can I tell you a little secret?”
“As long as you keep talking, you can tell me whatever you want.”
He chuckles, dotting kisses up and down my neck. “I love this too, feeling your body give up the fight of the day and let me take over.” He turns me in his arms so I’m facing him. “I love that you trust me enough to let your shoulders sink out of that perfect posture you walk around with.”
As he reaches up and undoes the elastic in my hair, I watch his features soften. He moves carefully, unwrapping the tie from the twisted mess in my locks, careful not to pull.
“There,” he says, cupping the back of my head through my long tresses, “that’s better.”
“You don’t like my hair up?”
“Not like you had it. You look to lunching-y,” he says, wrinkling his nose.
“Yes,” he grins.
“You are too cute.”
“You are too fucking sexy.”
Reaching up, I swipe the pad of my thumb over the cut above his eye. He flinches, but just for a second. “What happened?”
“Bond’s right hand.”
“I hate him.”
“So do I,” he snickers.
“Let’s get some ice for it.”
He leans in, his brows tugging together. “Let’s not.” His eyes hood as he takes me in, his tongue darting out and wetting his lips. My knees weaken, my body humming with delight at his reaction.
“I want to take care of you,” I whisper, although that’s really on the backburner now. “Let me baby you.”
Instead, he lifts me up and places me on the table. My stomach clenches as he positions himself between my thighs, my sundress curling at my waist. I ring my legs around him, pulling him so close that the soft cotton of his sweatpants rubs against my opening.
He looks down. “You aren’t wearing panties.”
USA Today Bestselling author Adriana Locke lives and breathes books. After years of slightly obsessive relationships with the flawed bad boys created by other authors, Adriana has created her own.
She resides in the Midwest with her husband, sons, and two dogs. She spends a large amount of time playing with her kids, drinking coffee, and cooking. You can find her outside if the weather's nice and there's always a piece of candy in her pocket.
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