Page 82 of The Winslow Brothers

I don’t know how long I’m just standing there, waiting,anticipating, but it feels like an eternity until Jude comes up behind me. His chest presses against my back, and he places two warm hands onto my bare shoulders.

“Do you want to know what I’m thinking about right now?” he whispers into my ear, and his warm breath brushes against my neck.

I shiver. Nod my head.

“I’m thinking about the first night I met you,” he answers, his voice the kind of deep and husky that turns my mind into a one-track loop of hot sex and dirty, wicked things. “The night I made you come without removing a single item of your clothing. Without sliding my cock inside you. Without even putting my mouth on your sweet-as-fuck pussy.”

I should probably be mortified that he knows about that,that my body’s reaction to him on the night of Belle’s bachelorette party was that freaking obvious, but I can’t seem to find the strength or concentration for mortification right now. All I can do is wait with bated breath over what he’s going to do and say next.

Jude Winslow is a wild card. I can’t anticipate his next move any more than I can anticipate the first drop of rain on a stormy day, and right now, I have to admit that it’s addictive.

It goes against everything I normally do or say or think about—it defies every previous reaction and response I’ve ever had towardthe men who came before him. But I don’t have control over it. All I seem to be able to do with him is experience the present.

The past. The future. For some reason, they don’t exist when he’s around.

With him, it’s only the here and now. And man oh man is that a really wonderful thing for an overthinker like me.

He releases his hands from my shoulders, stepping away from me, and immediately, my body feels discomfort from the loss of contact. My lips quirk down at the corners, but my gaze never stops studying him as he steps in between me and the couch.

In rapt fascination, I watch as he removes his black suit jacket, tosses it onto a velvet sofa, and sits down. He rolls up the sleeves of his shirt, and I find a sick amount of enjoyment from seeing his strong, sculpted forearms come into view. They’re tanned and muscular, and thick, corded veins can be seen beneath his skin.

Instantly, my nipples turn downright traitorous and harden beneath my dress.

Seriously? How can a man’s forearms turn you on like this?

Honestly? I don’t have a clue, but I’m certain of one thing—this man looks like a god just sitting there on the couch. The first two buttons of his crisp white shirt are undone. His arms are stretched out wide across the back of the sofa. And his crystal-blue eyes glisten with filthy secrets that I’m desperate for him to tell my body.

The ache between my thighs grows more demanding, but I’m helpless to do anything but keep standing there, in the center ofthe room, looking at him, while the vibrations from the house music from the inside of the club provide a rhythmic, heady soundtrack.

He crooks one finger in my direction. “Come here, sweet Sophie.”

I swallow hard against the pulsating eagerness that’s building inside my chest.

Good grief, he’s sexy.

My steps falter a little as I move toward him, but all thoughts of hesitation and unwarranted doubt are pushed right out of my head when Jude takes both of my hands into his and guides me onto his lap.

As I straddle his hips, my dress slides higher up my thighs. With a knowing smirk, he takes one long index finger and gently runs it up and down the newly exposed skin of my legs.

“Fuck, this dress should be illegal. It’s driving me crazy,” he whispers, his gaze lingering wantonly on my thighs before traveling up to meet my eyes.

You are driving me crazy,I think to myself.

We are face-to-face, my legs straddling his hips, and hisahempressed right against me. The evidence ishardand proves that I’m not the only one who is turned on, and when I inhale through my nose, the delicious aroma of his cologne makes my eyes shut momentarily.

With hints of cedar, mint, and lavender filling my head, I feel like I’m in the strangest of fantasy purgatories, bound between the sweetness of heaven and the naughty nature of hell.

He slides his hands into my hair and gently pulls my head back, and a soft moan escapes my lungs when the warmth of his lips hovers right above my throat. “I want to make you come again,” he whispers. “Just like I did all those nights ago. Without removing a single inch of your clothes.”

I can feel his mouth move down my neck, but it never actually touches my skin. Only the fluttering wisp of his warm breath makes real contact. It’s the most intense form of teasing foreplay I’ve ever experienced, and when he places his hands at my lower back and leans my body farther away, those lips of his drift over my chest, then each of my breasts.

My body reacts of its own accord, my nipples hardening even more and my breaths becoming needy pants of air in and out of my lungs.

But Jude never falters. He just keeps on teasing me,playing with me, making me hopeful that soon, that mouth of his will make contact with my skin.

Not to mention that he’s so hard now, I can feel the tip of him against the one spot that aches and throbs the most.

“Touch me,” I beg, and his blue eyes flame with satisfaction and heated desire.

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