Page 26 of End Game
Looking at the unmistakable bump in the crotch of his shorts, I lift a brow. “I think the word you’re after isblue.”
“Well played.” He widens his stance so I can get up if I choose, but he doesn’t get out of my way. Not in the slightest. “If you don’t feel self-assured sexually, then you’ve never had great sex.”
“I’ve had plenty of great sex,” I counter. “I just feel a little . . . unsure about myself. That happens sometimes to regular people that don’t have the entire population throwing themselves at your feet.”
“If you’ve been having great sex, you wouldn’t be unsure about yourself,” he contends. “Great sex makes you feel good about yourself. It gives you way more than an orgasm. It gives you . . . pride. Confidence. It builds you up mentally as much as physically.”
“This is getting deep,” I laugh.
He rests his head against the cushion and looks at me. “You can’t have mind-blowing sex without involving the mind. It seems whoever you’ve been fucking doesn’t know the first thing about that.”
“I haven’t been fucking anyone.”
“Since Callum?”
“Since Callum,” I confirm.
“How long ago was that?”
“Why do you care?”
“Just making conversation.”
“Seems like you’re prying, Mr. Best.”
Branch
Iamprying. I’m prying so damn hard it hurts.
Tugging my bottom lip between my teeth, I grab onto the slice of self-control I have left. It’s waning, dangling on a spinning string that gets more difficult to hold on to with every flutter of her long eyelashes.
“What’s wrong with a little getting-to-know-you?” I ask.
“Nothing . . . if you ask the right questions.”
It’s not the answer she gives, but the way she gives it that makes me want to scoop her up and carry her inside and lock ourselves in a bedroom for the rest of the afternoon. She’s sweet as honey and as sinful as the day is long.
Narrowing my eyes, I drag a fingertip across the top of her thigh. “Are you turned on right now?”
“I’m not answering that,” she breathes.
“You don’t have to. I already know the answer.”
“Oh, you do, do you?”
“It seems,” I say, trailing my finger up her torso, across her pebbled nipple, and up the side of her throat, “that your body is a little more honest than you are.”
“I didn’t say yes or no. I said I wasn’t answering.”
“Okay, you want to do a visual representation. I can do that. It’s like instead of discussing the formation of the play, we’re going to do a walk-through.”
She laughs, but lets me take her hand and pull her to her feet. We stand inches from one another, her head coming up right beneath my chin, as she looks up at me with her bright golden eyes sparkling.
“The question was,” I say, letting my hands go to her hips, “are you turned on right now?”
“I thought you already knew the answer?” She does that eyelash flutter thing again and I feel like I’m going to explode. “My turn.”
“For what?” I say as I lift the edges of her shirt up just enough so my hands can wrap around her waist. Her body is soft, her skin warm, and the way she moves under my touch has me breathing much harder than necessary.
