Page 101 of Can't Always Get What You Want

I want to be naked. I wanthimto be naked, too, but first thing first.

Tugging at the hem of the hoodie I struggle to lift it over my head—almost get stuck—before tossing it to the floor. Now I’m only in my leggings and push up bra doing my darndest to perch delicately and sexily on the bed.

“Come here,” I whisper, holding out my hands, beseeching.

Come hither.

Luca doesn’t pounce like I expect him to.

Nope.

In true, gentlemanly fashion, he kneels in front of me, fingers skimming along the waistband of my leggings, not even bothering to try and peel them off.Not yet. No, he makes me wait, pressing a kiss to my sternum above the lace of my bra.

“Delicious,” he murmurs, causing my chest to tighten. “I like taking my time with pretty things.”

My hands move instinctively, threading through his hair, urging him closer, but he only chuckles softly against my stomach. A rumble I feel more than hear. He leans into the touch with a quiet sigh, then trails another kiss lower, over my ribs, my stomach, every inch of exposed skin.

I should be lavishing him with light touches—he’s the one who had a game tonight. He’s the one whose body is beat and bedraggled.

Still, he worships mine like it’s made of stars.

I pull gently at his hair, coaxing him to look up at me. His eyes flicker to mine, heavy-lidded and warm.

“You should be resting,” I whisper.

I swear, the man’s eyes twinkle when he says, “Iamresting.”

Down come my leggings…

He stands, removing his T-shirt, then his joggers and socks.

Climbs up, onto the bed beside me.

I press a hand to his chest and nudge him so he’ll roll to his back— obedient, relaxed, trusting me to take the lead. The moment he settles his head into the pillows, he reaches for me, hands resting gently at my hips.

Good boy…

“You are so good at your job. You carried the whole game,” I murmur, fingers brushing over the bruise on his hip, the faint scrape near his shoulder. “Let me carrythis.”

He swallows.

Nods.

So I lean down and kiss him slowly.

My lips trail across the line of his jaw, down his throat, over the places I know ache, not that he would admit it.

My palms skim along his skin, mapping it out; his breathing grows ragged as he watches me like I’m the answer to every question he never knew he had.

I settle beside him again, hand on his chest, cheek pressed against his shoulder, he exhales like I’ve healed something in him.

“I already don’t want to go home later,” I whisper, speaking the things out loud I hate to admit. Too vulnerable.

His arm curls around me tighter. “Then don’t.”

It’s reckless, the way my heart stutters.

His words aren’t dipped in temptation or playful suggestion. They’re an invitation.

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