Page 90 of Their Greatest Strength

“What do you like, Blakely?”

“In terms of what?”

His grin is pure, filthy sin. “Do you prefer a tongue or fingers?”

Fuck, I’m light-headed.

“Nobody would choose fingers over a tongue.”

“Mm, you’ve got a point.”

I release the tension in my thighs and let them fall open, subtly inviting him closer. He cups my calf and guides it behind his back, hitching my thigh around his hip. The move opens me up further, and he fills the gap until our middles touch.

“Which do you prefer?” I ask, desperate to know more.

“Giving? That depends.”

“Don’t be coy.” My words are sharp, impatient.

His eyes drop to where we touch. To the thick bulge of him and the strained silk dress hiding my panties.

“It depends on who I’m with,” he reveals softly.

I curl my fingers, digging my nails into my palms to keep from reaching up and strangling him for his roundabout answers.

“You’re with me, Jamie. It would be me.”

Lightning flashes in his eyes. I attempt to prepare myself for his next statement, but it’s worthless.

He pushes all the way into my space, demanding I hand over every inch of myself to him. I’d do it if I wasn’t still somewhat in control of my mind.

“With my wife, I’d do both. First, I’d use my mouth. Drag kisses up your thighs to your hip bones. Have a feeling you like to use your hands, so I’d be expecting fingers in my hair, tugging as you try guiding me to your pussy. Am I right, baby? Yeah, exactly like that.”

Soft curls slip between my fingers as I blink and take in the sight of my hand in his hair. I’m too high on his words to stop playing with it.

“You’d open these legs for me, wide enough that I can settle on my knees and toss them over my shoulders. I bet you moan when you’re being pleasured. Not too loud at the start, but like with your hand in my hair, you like to lead. Every sound you’d make would be to encourage me, to tell me if I’m making you feel good or if I can do better,” he rasps.

I roll my lips, battling letting loose one of those very sounds. He’s too in tune with me to let that go, and once he starts to smirk, I push forward and grip his shirt with both hands. The buttons on a fancy shirt are sturdy, but when I yank on the fabric hard enough, they still scatter.

He stares at me and then down at his exposed chest beforebracing himself on the counter and groaning. My heart gallops, winning against him becoming a hovering possibility?—

“Slap me, Blakely. Fucking slap me or kick me, but I need to touch you. Please let me touch you,” he pleads, the strain in his tone breaking my resolve.

I nod frantically and shove at the shoulders of his shirt, needing it off. He helps, shrugging it down his arms before palming my inner thigh, offering me another chance to shove him off.

“Fingers, Jamie,” I demand, reaching out to feel his flexing abdomen. “Give me your fingers.”

The feral glint in his stare intensifies the burn in my blood as he reaches between my legs and smooths a single knuckle down my seam. Jaw clenching, he squeezes his eyes shut and rests his forehead against mine.

“Do you need it gentle?”

I scrape my nails down the middle ridge of his six-pack. “Even if I did, I wouldn’t want that right now. Just fuck me with your fingers, Jamie.”

He opens his eyes and watches me while he pulls my panties to the side and parts my lips with a finger. I hiss a breath and lurch off the countertop.

“Was trying to beat me what made this pussy so wet? Or has my wife just been craving her husband?”

The pressure of his finger sliding inside of me, stretching and claiming, is euphoric. I dig my nails into his stomach and whine, needing more.

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