Page 41 of Restless Hawke
He nips at my earlobe, making my pussy clench as I squirm. “I wasn’t talking about the goddamn card game, Allegra, and you know it. You played with fire, and now you’re burning alive.”
His hand glides up my thigh, anddammit, I shift in my seat. Only instead of closing my legs to the potential intimate touch, escaping the intended intrusion, instead of reaching down and tugging his hand away, I shift them open slightly.
That dull ache in my clit screams for him to keep going even as my head chants what a horrible, horrible mistake this will be.
Coen’s voice dips low, taking on a sultry tone that almost makes me come on the spot. “I want you to tell me something, Allegra.”
“Wh-what?”
His fingers dig into my thigh, pinning it in place. “How many men have you done this to?”
The first time we met flickers through my head, when he accused me of being a professional. This accusation isn’t that far from it, nor is it far from the truth.
I could attempt to lie, but I don’t believe Coen Hawke would be satisfied with that. And he deserves the truth, considering what I put him through today.
“More than I should have, and fewer than you think.”
Coen pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and nods slowly, watching my face as his hand slides even farther now, playing with the hem of my dress, only inches from where my body craves his touch. He feathers his fingertips there, tickling me and making me squirm. “How many of those men did you take to bed, Allegra?”
I tighten my grip on my martini glass, then bring it up to take another long swallow of my drink, suddenly needing the chilly liquid and the alcoholic courage.
But I don’t look away from him.
I can’t.
If I do, he’ll take advantage of the momentary weakness he will see it as.
“Would it surprise you if I said none?”
His eyes widen. “It would. Because you’re very good at this, getting under my skin, distracting me in a way no one else ever has.” A little thrill rolls through me at his confession. “But the thing is, Allegra?—”
Coen’s hand slips farther up now, only an inch from the apex of my thighs.
Half an inch.
Even higher.
The busy casino restaurant around us.
The people laughing and eating.
The waitstaff hustling from table to table.
So many people who could look over and see exactly what he’s doing.
But somehow, that only heightens the anticipation, builds the tension.
God, he’s going to keep going.
I should stop him.
Stop this.
I should slide out of the opposite side of this booth and walk away, just like I did when he caught up with me in Atlantic City and things gotwaytoo intense.
I should, I should, I should.
Any person in my position would.
