Page 42 of Who's Your Daddy?

“I’ve been watching you all day. I want you so bad I can’t even think straight. You and that dress are doing crazy things to me.”

“Please don’t blame the dress. You’re exactly the same even when I’m wearing your old football jersey.”

All I get is a chuckle in response and his steps increase in pace. We pass about twelve stainless steel industrial-sized washing machines before we get to the other side. One lonely whirring drum tells me it must be a slow day. Hopefully, that means none of the staff will come stumbling in here. Hope is all I have because logic and rationality don’t work when he gets like this. He’s focused on one thing and one thing only.

In contrast, I’m trying to think beyond how sexy he looks in that suit and be the voice of reason. “Damon, there are over two hundred guests on the other side of the door.”

Him in a suit is giving that Damon Salvatore energy today, hence the name. But the joke and the attempt at logic land on deaf ears. “And it’s just the two of us in here,” he counters.

He yanks me into a narrow space. On one side is a washing machine, which is thankfully high enough to shield us from view. On the other side are long rows of metal shelves mounted to the wall, stacked high with clean, folded white towels.

“You’re a groomsman. Surely, someone’s going to come looking for you.”

“Photos are done.” He’s already unbuckling his belt. “The reception hasn’t started yet.” He hoists me up, balancing my ass on the edge of one metal shelf. “We’ve got about ten minutes before anyone even notices I’m gone.”

His impatience is such a turn-on. The way he lifts my legs around his waist. The way he drags the silky green material higher up my thighs. The way he just doesn’t give a damn that someone might walk in at any moment.

With bated breath, I watch as he tugs his zipper down and slips on a condom. My pulse thrums beneath my skin when his hand sneaks beneath my dress. He catches the seam of my lacey thong and shifts it to the side. Something about me seems to mesmerize him because he doesn’t say a word as he positions himself at my entrance.

Those jade eyes remain fixated on me as he sinks into me. A husky groan echoes in his throat, an erotic sound that sends pleasure waves rippling through my body. He doesn’t kiss me. He just stares at me as his hips begin to rock.

The way he looks at me has become an addictive aphrodisiac. It gets my heart pounding wildly, my temperature rising rapidly. It’s a look of raw lust and rapt appreciation. It’s a look of yearning, even though he’s buried inside me. Peter always looks at me like he could never want anyone more.

He reaches up, gripping the shelf above my head. The sturdiness of the metal gives him enough leverage to drive deeper inside me. A loud moan rips from my throat and his other hand clamps down on my mouth to muffle the sound.

“Shhhh,” he whispers, a playful grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Let’s not draw attention to ourselves. I don’t want anyone seeing you like this except me.”

His thrusts are slow and purposeful, his pelvis hitting against mine in a hard, relentless rhythm. My ass jerks as his movements increase in force, the buckle of his belt clinking each time it taps the metal shelf. The need mounting between us is palpable. He’s panting. I’m moaning into his palm.

“Fuck, Li, you feel so good.” Right before I climax, he drops his hand, his mouth hovering mere millimeters above mine. “The way your pussy pulses around me makes me lose my fucking mind.”

When he finally kisses me, molten heat engulfs me. Our lips meet in a fervent collision of hunger and desire. I should be used to it by now. Over the last two weeks, I must’ve kissed him a thousand times, but every time it’s different. More passionate. More intense. The dexterity of his tongue mixed with his rough, rapid thrusts is a potent blend of sensations that sends me over the edge.

A sexy sound rumbles in his throat when he feels me tighten around him. I come apart in his arms and he swallows every aching whimper. His body stiffens and his teeth sink into my lower lip as he climaxes. We stay there, an entangled mass of limbs, as the euphoric high slowly subsides.

He drops his forehead against mine, his heavy breaths warm on my skin. “It was definitely the dress,” he whispers hoarsely.

I snicker as he withdraws and sets me back down on the floor. I hold on to him until I can feel my legs again. He helps me neaten my dress and I straighten his jacket and tie before we walk back to the door. He does his stealthy spy checks, then gives me the go-ahead to leave the laundry room.

I tell him to meet me outside the ladies’ room, then disappear to freshen up. A naughty grin is still plastered on his face when I emerge five minutes later.

“Now, remember,” he says, taking my hand. “I’m trying to avoid lectures and life advice at all costs. If anyone asks, you’re my girlfriend...except if it’s Mrs. Diaz. I can’t have you ruining my chances with her.”

I giggle. He seems to have the sweetest schoolboy crush on the mother of the bride, and I find it absolutely adorable.

As we walk through the crowd, he interlinks his fingers with mine. Part of me wonders if he’s holding my hand to keep up the pretense or if hewantsto hold my hand. Is it weird that I want it to be the latter?

It is weird. Actually, it’s not weird. It’s stupid. I remind myself that this is a temporary situation, and I shouldn’t even indulge in such ludicrous thoughts.

“I thought Katharine Hepburn was the only woman you were keen to wife up,” I tease.

“Mrs. Diaz ranks a little higher than good, ol’ Kathy, seeing as though she’s still alive. And way hotter.”

I look across the room at Mrs. Diaz, who has her arm looped through her husband’s as they walk around, greeting all their guests. “And her husband doesn’t deter you at all?”

“Keith is a bit of a nuisance,” Peter quips as we walk to our table, “but I’ve made my intentions clear.”

We reach the table close to the stage and Peter pulls out a chair for me. I sit down, taking in the details around me. This wedding is not what I expected at all. I was expecting this sort of snooty, overly posh, rubbing-shoulders-with-the-elites type of event. But everyone here seems very down to Earth. I wasn’t totally off the mark, though. It’s a very posh wedding.

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