Page 177 of Tell Me Something True

“And why is that?”

“Maybe what I told you that night at your house still stands,” she said, leaning back even more so that her shirt rose, exposing several inches of her belly. “Maybe I’m not big on performances.”

One corner of his mouth turning up, he edged closer, stepping between her legs, the rough material of his jeans brushing her inner calves.

Then he widened his stance, forcing her legs to open. “No. That’s not it.”

She raised her eyebrows at his superior tone. The certainty there.

Not to mention that high-handed manspread of his.

“It’s not?”

He shook his head, but he wasn’t looking at her face, he was staring at the strip of exposed skin on her belly.

Then he skimmed the tip of his forefinger just above the waistband of her shorts, from her right hip bone to her left. Her breath caught. The muscles of her stomach twitched. Contracted.

Trembled.

His mouth pursed as if he was fighting a grin.

A pleased one, no doubt.

“You don’t mind performing,” he murmured. “Not for me.”

Holding her gaze, he dragged that finger over the snap of her shorts. Down the zipper. Then he trailed it between her legs where she was wet and swollen and aching for him. But it was too light. She barely felt it.

So she lifted her hips.

And his smile broke free.

She’d been right. It was definitely pleased, with just enough smugness and triumph in it to have that ache in her pussy intensify.

“See?” he asked, still with those barely-there brushes of his finger while she kept up with the hip undulations, seeking more pressure. “You don’t mind performing. Not for me. Not when I’m the one pulling your strings.”

She should deny it. After all, there was a difference between giving the man what he wanted and letting him think he was some puppet master controlling her every move.

“That’s a nice theory you’ve come up with. An inaccurate theory. But a nice one.”

Head tipped slightly to the side, that finger now moving with a bit more pressure along her seam, he settled his other hand on her thigh just below the hem of her shorts. Then he slowly slid his hand up the leg of her shorts beneath the material and splayed his warm fingers across her hip, stilling her seeking movements with a firm pressure that had more moisture pooling between her legs.

“Not inaccurate,” he corrected. “And nothing you need to be ashamed of, the way you respond to me. The way you like to please me. The way you trust me to take care of you.” He lifted his gaze to hers. “The way you give yourself over to me is nothing you need to be afraid of.”

Her breath caught so hard, so fast, she choked. Had to force her attention off the feel of his hand on her hip, the brush of his finger at her center, and focus on drawing in a slow, deep breath. Letting it out again.

“I’m not ashamed,” she finally managed.

There was no use denying how very much she liked him doing exactly what he’d said. Pulling her strings. Taking control of her body.

Taking care of her.

She was safe with Miles. She’d always known that, but hadn’t always trusted him. She hadn’t trusted his motives. Hadn’t trusted his feelings for her.

Hadn’t trusted that she was worthy of him.

But she did trust him.

It made being with him this way—every way, really—so much better.

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