Page 67 of Love Me Tomorrow

I should know. If that were the case, then I’d still be in and out of jail for stupid, immature decisions, instead of sitting on a multi-million-dollar nest egg—created by my own sweat, blood, and tears. Literally.

She pops the button free.

Lifts her ass off the coffee table that I only just put together and wriggles the material down over her hips, her thighs, her slender calves.

My cock, impatient asshole that he is, grows impossibly hard in my jeans.

And this time—this time—she must take pity on me because instead of knitting her knees together, she spreads them wide, feet firmly planted on the rug. With her hair covering her breasts, and a pair of tiny underwear covering the triangle between her legs, Savannah looks like a wet dream come to life just to screw with my sanity.

I drag in a heavy breath.

Curl my fingers into the top of the sofa, so I won’t be tempted to reach for her.

Somehow find it in myself to not bark at her to ditch the coy act and climb her pretty ass on my lap.

You are patient,I tell myself firmly.You are a gentleman. You are a saint.

Pretty sure God, or whoever the hell is up there, is laughing mightily at my expense right now.

And then Savannah moves, except that it’s not toward me. No, she hikes up a foot and balances her heel on the lip of the table. Like an addict cut from his drug of choice, my gaze zeroes in on her underwear-covered pussy.

Fuck, I can’t.

I am not this strong.

No one in the history of earth has ever been this strong.

You will not move from this couch. You will let her dictate the pace. You will not—

Her hand lands on her stomach, fingers inching south toward paradise.

I bolt up off the couch, prepared to haul her into my arms, only to be halted by a hand to my shoulders. “Let me,” she whispers, leaving me no choice but to fall back against the couch and prove to her that I can take it all, just like I promised.

But I can’t.

I can’t take it all because this woman . . .

“You’re gonna kill me,” I mutter raggedly, returning my arms to the back of the sofa with all the enthusiasm of a man being told to walk the plank. “Make my heart stop. Put together a funeral. Send a gazillion roses that I’ll smell, even down in hell.”

“Pretty sure they don’t have roses in hell.” Her fingers brush the waistband of her panties with teasing strokes obviously executed to make me lose my mind. “But even if they did”—a flirty, naughty smile tugs at her lips—“this is all your fault.”

I’m not one to ever feel truly caught off guard, but there’s no stopping my jaw from popping open at that. “Hold on.Myfault?”

“You walked into my life, Owen. You walked into my life when you shouldn’t have, but you did, and you threw all of my carefully orchestrated plans right in the garbage. I was fine doing what was expected of me. Would have probably been content to suck it up and do the same thing for the rest of my life, not causing waves, not pushing buttons, but then I strolled into Inked on Bourbon and learned what it means tothrive.”

All comebacks die on the tip of my tongue when she slips those questing fingers down, down, down. Beneath the fabric of her underwear, her knuckles move in a small circle. Once. Her head tips back, full mouth parting on a silent moan, hair slipping to the side to reveal heaven itself. Her breasts are gorgeous: hard-tipped nipples; that imperfect mole on her left breast; just enough weight to make for a perfect handful.

Her name is ripped from my throat, needy and fucking desperate.

“I’d never seen anyone so enthralled by their work before,” she says, that damn finger of hers still circling, still rubbing her clit beneath the shield of cotton, even as her breathing grows labored. “Did you know that you bite down on your bottom lip when you’re concentrating hard? Or that you make this sound—this little growl of approval—when you stand back and let your client see their tattoo for the first time? Your pride is contagious, your ambition a drug that I wanted for myself . . . and then the fantasies started.”

I growl now, but not out of approval and definitely not out of pride. Precious control slips through my fingers as I shamelessly cup the bulge straining behind my zipper, squeezing my erection just enough to alleviate the mounting pressure.

Savannah arches her back, loops her other hand under her bent knee, and knuckles her underwear to the side, leaving her pussy completely exposed to my hot gaze. Holyfuck.I die, right then and there, my muscles tight with tension, blood pounding furiously in my head—both of them—my teeth gritted to the point of pain.

Without a hint of embarrassment, her finger teases her clit, swoops down to her wet folds, then retreats up again. Her breathing hitches, like she’s working against her own desire, and then she meets my gaze, hers glassy with lust, mine no doubt reflecting the same desperate hunger.

“You aren’t the only one who tangled the sheets around your waist, your hand wedged between your thighs.” As if to prove her point, she sinks a finger into her pussy, pumping slowly, in and out, and I all but come like a schoolboy with absolutely zero stamina. “I thought of you stripping down to nothing, and me slipping to my knees. Your hand going to the back of my head, and mine going to your thigh. Your mouth telling me to open wide, and mine sucking the crown of your cock.”

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