He had to push the seat the whole way back to accommodate his long legs, but he still managed to look comfortable, confident as he drove us back to my place. He asked me about the event and the author, and I did my best to answer, even though every sense seemed to be preoccupied with him. That full-body tingly awareness was even worse now that I knew what his body was capable of doing to mine. It felt like an electrical current charging my blood.
He pulled into my driveway, and I leaned over to punch the garage door opener. When we were officially alone and the door slid shut behind us, we exploded.
I released my seat belt half a second before he hooked me under the arms and dragged me over the console. I landed in his lap.
One inferno of a kiss and some dry humping later, he pulled back. “Go pack.”
“What? Why?”
“We’re not staying here.”
I thought of the can of whipped cream in my refrigerator. The two new lingerie sets I’d bought. “Why the hell not?”
“Because if we stay here, someone is going to knock on your door or look through your windows or see me naked when they deliver dinner. You have off tomorrow. We’re going to my place, where my neighbors know enough to mind their own business.”
“Your place?” There were six million things that could and would go wrong with that. First, I couldn’t kick him out of his own place when he inevitably pissed me off.
He didn’t answer me. At least not with words. Instead he yanked the neckline of my sweater down and buried his face between my breasts.
“A very convincing argument. I’ll pack.”
28
Put It on My Tombstone
Lucian
Ihate to admit it, but your place doesn’t suck,” Sloane mused over her pad thai.
We’d paused our sex marathon to refuel by eating Thai food naked in bed while watching Brooklyn Nine-Nine reruns. It was the most rom-com thing I’d ever done in my life.
I leaned over and stole some of her noodles. “I’m glad you approve.”
She was naked except for her glasses. She’d piled her hair on top of her head with a few efficient twists of her wrists and a flimsy elastic tie. With my thousand-thread-count Italian sheets draped over her, she looked both adorable and sexy.
The women I dated—or more accurately took to bed—didn’t do adorable. They were well-dressed, well-coiffed, and never seen in public in gym clothes. Sloane, on the other hand, had unironically packed pajamas with hearts. I couldn’t wait to see her in them…and strip them off her.
She twirled her chopsticks in a circle to encompass my bedroom. “It doesn’t feel like the lair of an evil villain. It’s more like the bachelor pad of a hot wealthy guy with no personality.”
The sly look she shot me did her in. We’d both gotten less insulting in the heat of the moment, which meant we had serious ground to make up when my cock wasn’t inside her, making her scream my name.
I dumped the food cartons on the nightstand and snagged her by the ankle when she tried to escape.
“You’ll pay for that.”
I anchored her knee between mine, tightened my grip on her ankle, and tickled the bottom of her foot.
Sloane shrieked and tried to wriggle free.
“Apologize,” I said mildly. It was a game we’d played when we were different people, and I probably should have left it in the past where it belonged.
“Okay! Okay! It’s the bachelor pad of a hot, wealthy guy whose designer has no personality,” she screeched.
My bedroom was done in rich browns. Large, dark furniture dominated the space and was softened by expensive ivory bedding and heavy curtains that currently blocked out the world.
“Try again.”
“Agh! Okay! I’m sorry! You have a very nice place. I definitely don’t hate it.”
I gave her rounded ass a resounding slap and released her foot. “There. That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
“That’s what she said.” Her voice was muffled by the pillow.
“That’s not what she said twenty minutes ago,” I reminded her, coasting my hand over her bare shoulders, down the silky skin of her back, drawing the sheet with me so I could memorize each notch in her spine.
Her body was a fascination. Generous curves packed in a tiny, feisty package. I never knew what was going to come out of her mouth next. An insult or a demand for me to defile her in a new way.
It had been a gamble, bringing her here. The less Anthony Hugo and his minions knew about my life, the better. But I’d laid enough false leads for them with the tracker on the company car this week before removing it. Besides, if his men spotted me with Sloane here, she would just look like some woman his enemy was fucking. In Knockemout, it would be clear she was much, much more.