In my experience, hot guys aren’t that good in bed. They’re selfish because they don’t have to work as hard to get women. And Rory? He’s the best-looking man I’ve ever met.
There’s no way he’ll win.
“You think?” And yet, I’m playing this game with him. Weak, Hazel. So weak.
“I know.”
I can imagine how his tongue would feel, swiping hot, wet circles on my clit, winding me higher. I know how soft his hair is, and I’m itching to tug on it while his head is between my legs.
Holding my gaze, still resting his hand on the door above my head, he dips his fingers into my leggings and strokes me. I arch, lips parting as heat sears through me.
“Are these the panties I bought?” he bites out, and I nod.
He lets out a low laugh, running the tip of his tongue over his bottom lip while his fingers slide over me, drawing firm circles. The muscles between my legs flex around nothing as pressure builds.
“And you’re so wet.” His smile is arrogant, like he’s already won. The approval in his voice has me tightening up, tilting my hips against him for more friction. My center aches, and I wish he was inside me.
I can’t even get a full breath; I’m just taking tiny sips of air. “And what do you get if you win?”
Another slow, wet stroke over my clit. “Anything I want.”
My pussy clenches, sharp and fast, and my teeth clamp down on my bottom lip. Why is the idea of Rory taking whatever he wants so hot?
“And if I win?” I’m fighting to keep from moaning as he circles the tight bud of nerves. “If you can’t?”
There’s that low laugh again, like that isn’t even an option, but sure, he’ll humor me. “Then you can have whatever you want.”
Between my legs, he’s drawing the most intoxicating circles. My head spins.
“You said I should eat what I want,” he adds with a smirk.
I guess I like playing with fire. I guess I forgot how it feels to be burned. Rory’s hands have been on me all night and I’m so worked up, aching between my legs. I’m not thinking straight.
There’s a version of me from months ago who hated Rory, the one who’s screaming at me to shut up now, and I slam the door in her face.
She can wait outside while I make bad choices.
He brings his lips to my ear. “Say yes, Hazel. Let me do something I’ve been thinking about since the day I met you.”
I’m nodding, because consequences be damned. Despite what Rory says, it’s just once.
And I’m really, really curious if Rory will win.
His hand slips out of my leggings and he laughs at my noise of frustration, but then he’s pulling my t-shirt over my head.
His eyes darken as he stares at my breasts, shaking his head. “If you ever thought I wasn’t attracted to you, Hazel,” he tugs one bra cup down and pulls a stiff peak into his mouth, and my back arches as a bolt of pleasure hits me between the legs, “you’re delusional.”
While his mouth is on my nipple, his hands work fast, pushing my leggings down and helping me kick them off before he drops to his knees, looking up at me with a dangerous smile.
“Like this?” I ask as he brushes a kiss on my inner thigh. Self-consciousness streaks through me. I’m standing in front of Rory in two tiny scraps of lace while he’s fully clothed and kneeling in front of me, but the look in his eyes is pure heat, pure bliss, as his hands move over my thighs and waist.
“Mhm.” A trail of soft kisses up my thigh, over my hip. “Exactly like this. Want to see you in what I bought.”
He slips his hand beneath the front of my panties, drags a thumb over my clit, gaze flicking between my face and his hand, and a moan slips out of me. Sharp pleasure courses through me as he winds me higher, and I claw at the door with my nails for something to hold on to.
“Put your hands in my hair,” he tells me in a low voice, and when I do, he makes a pleased noise. His thumb is unrelenting and firm, stroking over me, winding the coil around the base of my spine tighter.
Rory touching my clit is beyond incredible—the pressure and speed are perfect, and seeing this big hockey player on the floor in front of me, looking at my body with reverence, feeds my bruised ego and confidence. His eyes meet mine, and the corner of his mouth lifts.
“Rory.” It’s a desperate plea because, holy hell, Rory Miller is so fucking hot, and I’m soaked.
“Holy fuck, I like that,” he says, spreading my wetness over me, swirling, winding me higher. “I like it when you say my name like that, Hazel.”