Page 50 of Don't Puck Your Best Friend’s Girl

She obliges, giving me a view of the back — an expanse of bare skin interrupted only by thin straps of lace that cross her shoulder blades before dipping low to where the fabric resumes at her waist. The contrast of black lace against her pale skin is mesmerizing, a work of art designed to drive me to the edge of insanity.

"Beautiful," I breathe, closing the distance between us again. My fingers trace the path of those delicate straps, following them down her spine. "Did you know I wouldn't be able to resist this? Is that why you wore it?"

"Maybe I wore it for myself," she counters, but the slight tremor in her voice betrays her.

"You little liar," I murmur, but there's no bite to it. I press my lips to the nape of her neck, feeling her pulse quicken beneath my touch. "Such a stubborn hater."

My hands find her hips, turning her to face me again. Her eyes meet mine, challenging and vulnerable all at once. I want to memorize this look, catalog every micro-expression that crosses her face as I carefully, methodically, take her apart.

"I'm going to make you feel so good," I promise, my thumbs tracing circles on her hipbones. "I'm going to make you forget everything except my name."

Before she can respond with what would undoubtedly be a sharp retort, I capture her lips with mine. My tongue traces the seam of her lips, requesting rather than demanding entrance, and when she grants it, I lose myself.

I back her slowly toward the bed, never breaking the kiss, until her legs hit the edge. Only then do I pull away, my hands moving to the button of her jeans.

"May I?" I ask, waiting for her nod before proceeding.

The denim slides down her legs, revealing more of the bodysuit — the high cut that elongates her legs, the way the fabric hugs the curve of her hips. My throat goes dry at the sight.

"Do you have any idea what you look like right now?" I ask, my voice rough with want.

She shakes her head, a flush spreading across her cheeks that has nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with the heat building between us.

"Like every fantasy I've ever had," I tell her honestly. "Better, actually. Reality has fantasy beat by a mile."

Her lips curve into a smile that's equal parts shy and seductive. "I didn't know you had fantasies about me," she admits.

"More than I should." I step closer, my hands finding her waist again. "Especially for someone who claims to hate me."

"I do hate you," she insists, but the words lack conviction.

"Then I'll have to change your mind." I lower her gently to the bed, following her down until I'm hovering above her, my weight supported on my forearms. "But that's what you want, right?"

I trail kisses down her neck, across her collarbone, taking my time to discover what makes her breath catch, what draws those small, intoxicating sounds from her throat. The lace of her bodysuit is both a barrier and enhancement, adding texture to my touch.

"I love this," I murmur against her skin, fingers tracing the edge of the lace where it meets her cleavage. "But I think I'd love it even more on the floor."

She nods, lifting slightly to allow me access to the hidden clasps. I take my time, savoring each new inch of skin revealed as the lingerie falls away. I won't be fucking her in this one. I need to see all of her. When she's bare beneath me, I can only stare, momentarily stunned by the perfection of her.

"You're beautiful," I assure her, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "I could look at you forever."

The sincerity of my words seems to touch something in her. She reaches for me, pulling me down to her for a kiss that feels like surrender.

I take my time working my way down her body, learning her like a language I was born to speak but somehow forgot. Every gasp, every arch of her spine, every desperate clutch of her fingers in my hair is a word in this new vocabulary we're creating together.

When I reach the top of her thighs, I glance up, meeting her eyes. "Still hate me?"

"Please," she gasps, rolling her eyes playfully.

"Please what, hater?" I tease, momentarily pausing my efforts. "Tell me what you want."

"I don't know," she admits, the single syllable carrying more weight than it should. "Just you."

The admission ignites something possessive within me. I rise above her, finally removing my own clothes with far less patience than I showed with hers. When I return to her bare body, I kiss her thighs, seeking permission to fit my face right where I want it: at her center.

"You have me," I tell her as I kiss her inner thigh. I watch as the sensation makes her pant.

"So, you're saying you won't date anyone or sleep with anyone else?"

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