Page 49 of Dining for Love

“Fuck, Willa.” His hands dig into my rear. “Please.”

“Yes.” It’s all I need to say before he spins and walks us to his room.

I don’t stop writhing against him. I need more. More.

“You can have whatever you want,” Reid answers.

A hot flush runs up my chest to my face. “Did I say that out loud?” I murmur, burying my face in his neck.

He stops in front of the bed. “You did, and it was perfect.” He grins at me, everything about him pure sex, then he tosses me—tossesme!—onto the bed.

I land with a bounce, my heart leaping into my throat.

“Get undressed.”

“Reid, I—” Then I lose my words, because the man rips his shirt off in that hot-as-sin way that men do, reaching behind his neck to pull it over his head, his stomach muscles bunching deliciously as he moves. “Fuck,” I breathe.

He stands before me in running shorts and nothing else. The grin he gives me is nothing short of feral. “Take your fill, Willa. This is all yours.”

I might pass out. “Water,” I croak.

He barks out a laugh. “I’ll go get you some water. You’re going to need it.” He spins to leave the room, but stops and wheels back to me. “Be naked when I get back. That’s an order.”

My brain short-circuits, but I manage to do exactly what he says, peeling off my shorts and sports bra and tank far quicker than I thought I had in me. Also: Let the record show that there is nothing more awkward than trying to figure out what to do with yourself when you’re totally naked on a man’s bed before the two of you have done anything and you’re waiting on him to get back from the kitchen with water that you, for some ridiculous reason, said you needed.

I yank my hair out of its ponytail and consider: Do I lie on my side like Jeff Goldblum, all sprawled and confident and smirking? No. I’m neither confident nor prepared to sprawl. Sitting cross-legged seems weird. Maybe I do some kind of legs to the side and leaning on one arm thing? Crap. I’m still moving around the bed awkwardly, and definitely giving thanks that I took a shower this morning before yoga, when Reid walks back in.

“Good girl,” he purrs, his eyes taking me in as he hands me the water. I take a sip, then he says, “You take orders so well.”

I promise you, the water dribbles out of my mouth as I stare at him.

He laughs. “God, I love flustering you.”

I blush furiously and wipe my mouth. “That’s not fair,” I whine, waving my hand at him. “You look like…this…and then you say things likegood girland talk about me obeying? What do you expect a girl to do?”

He shucks his shorts.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” I whisper.

He chuckles again, his dick bobbing up and down as he does.

Listen. I’ve never been one to describe a dick as pretty. That’s not really my thing. But Reid MacKinnon is sporting the prettiest dick I have ever seen in my life. Have I seen a lot of them? No,but that’s utterly beside the point. The man clearly has invested in a trimmer, because he’s also got some nice manscaping going on, but again: he has the most perfect dick, like, ever.

I don’t have words.

I’m babbling in my dang head, for goodness’ sake.

“What you don’t seem to understand, Willa,” Reid says, putting one knee on the bed, “is thatyouare the one who’s not fair.Youare the one who renders me utterly speechless.You,with your pajamas and shorts and tank tops.” He begins to crawl up the bed, a lion stalking its prey, his eyes dark and feral as he takes me in. “I have imagined this for weeks.”

I squeak, utterly paralyzed in the face of him.

He grins, a fantasy so good I never dared imagine it come to life. When he speaks, his voice is low and dark. “Spread your legs for me, pretty girl.”

I obey. My arms shake, threatening to give way as Reid crawls between my legs, hovering over me.

“Breathe,” he commands.

I gulp in a breath, lightheaded. I apparently hadn’t been breathing. “See?” I croak. “I can’t function around you.”

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