Page 70 of The Winslow Brothers

When I pull away, her eyes are wild and pale, warning of a storm like the underside of a leaf. I lean back to her ear, the air from my words vibrating off her neck and bouncing back to my lips to make them tingle.

“All I’m thinking about right now, Sophie, is feeling you on my cock. If I thought you were easy, I’d take you to the bathroom right now and fuck you.”

Her breathing escalates, reverberating in the pounding bass from Ki-Ki’s mix, and for a fraction of a second, I think about doing just that.

But instant gratification, as it turns out, isn’t always the best, and I know for a fact from my last encounter with this very woman, that the longer I prime Sophie tonight, the hotter the sex is going to be.

She’s begging to be toyed with, and I aim to please.

Done with conversation, I grab her hand again and pull her the rest of the way onto the dance floor, spinning her around in a full circle and slamming her front to my own. Her tits press deliciously into my chest and her hips are restless against me.

Slowly, ever so slowly, I bring a hand to her hip and start to move in tune with the thick, throbbing music.

The beat drops, and the lights fall, and I make my next move. Her slinky dress bunches up atop her thighs as I scoot my leg between hers and pull her hips toward me to grind deeper. It’s dirty dancing at its finest, and the last time I came this close to coming because of it was in high school.

Sophie’s eyes are locked on my face when I lift mine to look at her, and the emerald color of them looks like a sparkly onyx in the low light of the dance floor. I don’t know how one set of eyes can have the power to shine like so many different shades in the span of minutes, but they change like the mood rings my sister used to have as a kid.

I never expected to be back in this club with her after the first night, let alone dancing and breathing her in again—except, this time, with the intimate knowledge of what sinking myself between her legs really feels like.

I pull her hips firmly against mine, tighter, harder, and a moan leaves her lips on a silent gesture covered by the music. She looks like pure sex, and I can’t help but put my lips on her exposed throat and suck gently. Edging closer, she digs her fingernails into my shoulders and moans again, but this time, it’s loud enough for me to hear it, even over the crush of the crowd and bass.

With one eager hand, I dig into the back of her hair and pull her face up toward mine, sealing our lips together. She tastes like pure candy, compliments of the fruity drinks she’s been diving into all night while pretending not to notice me.

I lick the tiny space between her lips to get her to open them more and slide my tongue fully inside her perfect mouth on invitation. I swear she’s got the kind of lips I could explore for a night all on their own. Plump and responsive and as if they were meant to mesh with mine.

Everything else about the night starts to fade away. The clients, the job, all the details I should still be paying attention to.

Regardless of the importance of all of it, the only thing I can focus on is her.

Her sweet body. Her small but heavy tits. Her delicate collarbone and moody eyes, and the most perfect space between her legs that awaits me.

This night may have started out about winning over as many event planners as possible to ensure the long-standing success of Club Craze Manhattan. Winning overoneplanner, though, has become an event of its own.

Get ready, Sophie. I never back away from a challenge.

Saturday, March 10th, Early Morning

Sophie

My front door slams into the wall first, and then my back hits the door, Jude’s entire body weight pressed against me as he licks a line of unimaginable foreplay through the crease of my lips.

It promises a plethora of things, many of which I’ve spent entirely too many hours fantasizing about. It’s still dark outside, but the precursors of dawn are all around us. A hazy softness whirls in with the stark blue of night, painting the sky above the buildings out my window a shade of cerulean Miranda Priestly would be proud of.

My whole body burns and aches from the strain this many hours of arousal without culmination have put on it, and I don’t know that I’ll be able to continue much longer without shattering.

Jude doesn’t wait for direction, instead grabbing my hand, pulling me away from the door, and slamming it behind me. The sound echoes into the otherwise quiet space like a snap of a rubber band.

Pulling me behind him, Jude moves at a fast clip down the hallway toward my bedroom. The fact that he knows where to go already gives me a small thrill I’m not entirely expecting—almost as if we’re a couple or something—and I triple the speed of my feet to keep up with him and then some.

Brushing past him, I turn to move backward, pulling him along with me, and watch as his face transforms completely from the teasing man who spent the night trying to balance work and taunting me, to a man who means fucking business.

No more messing around, no more foreplay—Jude is going to fuck me like I’ve never been fucked before. I can feel it.

When the backs of my legs hit the bed, I fall to my ass and shove into it, crooking a finger toward him that amplifies the look of his lust with a smile.

“Eager, huh, baby?” he asks, making me bite my lip and nod.

The truth is, IhurtI want him so bad.

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