His brows narrow, tugging together at the center of his forehead. “Bullshit. Stop fucking lying to me and tell me the truth. Your date was barely enjoyable and the fucking douche didn’t seize the opportunity to kiss you, leaving you unsatisfied.”
“I was left completely satisfied.”
“Is that so?” he asks, then lowers his head so his nose runs along my collarbone. A wave of goosebumps springs up on my skin as his breath caresses my chest. “So, you’re telling me you wouldn’t want more?”
God, I want so much more.
I want to feel something.
I want to know what it’s like to be kissed again.
To have a man control me with his hands, with his mouth, with his words.
I want so much more than the date I had with Derek. I wanted him to want more of me. To tell me he wants to call me in the morning, ask me out again.
I want more than a freaking handshake at the end of the night.
But I can’t tell JP that. I can’t admit to him what a failure the end of the night was, so I keep my mouth shut. His nose rides up the column of my neck until he reaches my ear, where he asks, “Do you want to know what I would’ve done if I took you out on a date?”
Yes.
Desperately.
“No,” I answer. “Because you didn’t take me out, JP.”
“If I took you out, you wouldn’t be home this early. I’d find every opportunity I could to keep you out. I’d extend our night as long as I could until we had no choice but to say goodbye. And when we did”—he nibbles my ear, causing a tidal wave of lust to strike me—“when I said good night to you, it would be by leaning you against my car, stroking your cheek, and then holding you in place as I finally kissed you, the way I’d wanted to kiss you all goddamn night.”
“And . . . and how would you kiss me?” I ask.
“Slowly, at first”—his hand slides to my jaw, just above my throat—“so you get a taste of me, and when I felt that you were comfortable, content, I’d part your lips and demand more. I’d press my body against yours, slip my hand into your hair, just at the base of your skull, and then tangle our tongues, pulling more and more from you until you’re absolutely breathless.” His nose runs along my cheek. “Just like you are now.”
“I’m not breathless. Don’t flatter yourself,” I say.
His grip on my jaw grows tighter as he asks, “When are you going to learn not to lie to me? If I slipped my hand down your body and between your legs, I know you’d be wet.”
I am.
I am wet, throbbing, and so full of need that I can barely process his words.
“Not every woman is won over by what you call charm.”
He releases my jaw and sits up from his position, now standing in front of me looking down. His eyes scan my body, wrapped in black lace. That’s when I take a second to let my eyes wander his body. Broad, straight shoulders; boulders in his biceps, so thick and veiny, leading all the way down to his impeccable, inked forearms; and fingers that seem to curl toward his palm when anger sears through him. His chest is thick, strong, cut, leading down to his abs, which are stacked one right on top of the other. His belly button is the start of the metaphorical arrow that points down to the bulge in his shorts, the very prominent bulge.
He’s turned on, just like me.
And instead of listening to his voice, letting him dirty talk his way over my body, I’m provoking him, pushing him away, making him impossibly angrier.
Eyes on mine, he says, “Touch yourself. Show me you’re not wet.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t believe you. Show me you aren’t won over by my charm.”
My teeth run over my lip, my heart wildly beating. I know I’m wet. I know I’m turned on. And I know it’s from him.
I move my hand down my body to between my legs. I slip my fingers past the lace and against my clit. My eyes instantly shut from the pressure, and I hate myself for giving up how I feel, for showing him that I’m exactly where he wants me to be.
My eyes fly open as he seizes my wrist, and I find him bent forward, one hand propped on the bed, the other bringing my fingers toward his mouth. He parts his lips, drags my fingers over his tongue, and then releases them.
Fuck, I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so sexy in my life.
“Fucking liar,” he says, tucking my hand back under the lace between my legs. When I try to remove my hand, he keeps me there, pressing his hand against mine. “Why are you lying to me?” I don’t answer him, so he says, “I wouldn’t lie to you. I’m not concealing how I feel.” I glance down at his bulge again, the fabric of his shorts outlining his cock.