Page 72 of Be Your Anything
Lucas takes my face in his hands and presses his lips to mine without any additional conversation.
My mouth opens immediately, on instinct, with a desperate need to taste him as soon as possible.
He always tastes like the ocean, even if he’s showered and scrubbed the saltwater away. There’s always just a hint, that bit of tang that reflects how much time he spends in the sea. I love how it tastes in my mouth, especially when I can also smell the cologne I bought him for his birthday earlier this year.
“You smell so good,” I whisper as his lips drop to my neck.
He sucks lightly on my skin, his teeth grazing against my flesh as his hands drop to my hips and pull me close.
I reach up and grip him, my fingers twisting in the hair at the nape of his neck. I love his hair. It’s effortlessly handsome, and gripping it tightly in my hands when I’m falling over the edge is one of my favorite things.
He groans when I bite his lip and then pushes me back until I’m pressed up against the dining room table. We only kiss a moment longer before he spins me around so the length of me is pressed against him, my back to his front.
I grind my ass into his pelvis, eliciting another groan, relishing the feeling of his hands tightening on my hips. Then they reach under my skirt and begin to pull my panties down my legs.
“Mr. Pearson,” I say, my voice husky and threaded with the lust that’s rolling through my veins. “What are you doing?”
He bends me over the table, his fingers sliding between my legs, to the place that’s aching for him. Achy and empty and throbbing. Two fingers slip through the slickness between my lower lips, and we both make a noise. He groans, and I give out a tiny whimper.
“Taking what you so desperately want to give me.”
I gasp as he slides a finger in, pumping in and out and then turning to find that soft space, stroking it over and over. The noises coming from my mouth are nonsensical. Idiotic babble as my mind freezes over, my only focus on that space between my legs where he’s rubbing me.
“My dad might be home soon,” I say. “Don’t you want to go upstairs?”
Lucas doesn’t answer, though he does respond by pulling out his finger and sliding in with a second one.
“Are you a bad girl?” He groans in my ear. “Because I think you like the idea of getting in trouble for fucking your dad’s business partner.”
I love when Lucas plays into what he knows I need, and I have a desperate craving to break the rules even though I try so hard not to.
Lucas pulls his fingers out again, and I nearly cry out my disappointment until I realize he’s dropped to his knees behind me, lifting up my skirt to take a look at what lies underneath.
He moans, making a sound to indicate he likes what he sees, and then his head is between my legs, feasting on my lips and the wetness he’s created. That only he has managed to give to me. That feeling of lust and desperation is like a curtain, so fucking thick I can barely breathe.
“God, Lennon,” he groans, his tongue focusing on my clit in little circles before tracing back to my entrance.
I lie restless on the table, my fingers gripping at the glass and finding no purchase. He continues torturing me, pulling cries of pleasure from my mouth until he’s satisfied, until I’m on the verge of bliss. Then he stands, his hands fumbling at his belt to get it off.
Pushing me to the verge of orgasm and then denying me is one of Lucas’ favorite games, and one of my least.
Instead of giving in to what he wants, I spin around and pull up my panties then walk across the room to get my glass of wine.
Lucas’ jaw drops, his hands pausing just before pulling down his zipper. “What are you doing?”
I lift a shoulder and take a sip, considering him for a second. “Oh, I assumed you gave it your best shot and couldn’t get the job done, Mr. Pearson.”
His nostrils flare as I take another sip of my wine, draining the last bit and then walking around to the sink to rest the glass in the basin.
When I turn, I’m startled to see Lucas’ face inches from mine. That slight irritation I saw cross his eyes is gone, replaced with the cocky swagger that makes him one of the most desirable men in Hermosa Beach—the most desirable and the most unattainable.
“Listen, little girl,” he says, his fingers resting on my collarbone and tracing across the soft flesh, eliciting goose bumps in their wake. “I don’t know what your daddy taught you about boys, but I can promise you a real man knows how to finish off a woman.”
I lift an eyebrow, giving him the sass I know he wants.
“So then what was the problem?”
He bites his lower lip, his eyes smiling at me. Those fingers do a slow trace, carving a path down the center of my chest before his thumb strokes a circle around my nipple through my shirt.
