Page 77 of A Game of Deception
“Says the woman who’s about to walk into a wall,” I shot back, spinning her just in time to avoid the hallway corner, my hands already unzipping her dress. The fabric slid down her shoulders, revealing smooth skin and a lacy black bra that made my mouth go dry. “Fuck, Tara, did you wear this for me?”
“Maybe,” she purred, shoving my shirt off and raking her nails down my chest, light enough to tease but hard enough to leave faint red lines. “Or maybe I just like feeling sexy. Problem?”
“No problem at all,” I growled, backing her into the bedroom door with a thud that made us both laugh. “Except now I have to decide where to start.” I hoisted her up and carried her the last few steps to the bed, our mouths never breaking contact. We hit the mattress in a tangle, me on top, but she flipped us with surprising strength—years of sports paying off—and straddled me, her hair falling like a curtain around us.
“Impatient much?” I grinned up at her, my hands gripping her thighs as she ground against me, the friction through our remaining clothes driving me insane.
“Says the guy who’s already rock hard,” she countered, her hand slipping down to palm me through my pants, squeezing just right. I bucked into her touch, a curse slipping out, and she laughed again—that wicked, triumphant sound. “See? Told you.”
“Keep that up, and this’ll be over before it starts,” I warned, but I was already undoing her bra, tossing it aside to reveal her perfect breasts. I sat up, capturing one nipple in my mouth, sucking hard while my thumb teased the other. She arched, her fingers digging into my shoulders, a moan escaping that was half gasp, half my name.
“Not if I have anything to say about it,” she breathed, pushing me back down and shimmying out of her panties. She made quick work of my belt and zipper, freeing me with a stroke that had me seeing stars. “Hold on…”
I watched as she leaned over to the nightstand, giving me a glorious view of her ass, and I couldn’t resist—I gave it a light smack, just enough to sting playfully.
She yelped, spinning back with mock outrage, a condom packet in hand. “Oh, it’s like that, huh?”
“Absolutely,” I said, grinning as she tore it open with her teeth—hot as hell—and rolled it on me with torturously slow strokes. “Payback for that foot thing under the table at dinner.”
“Fair enough.” She positioned herself over me, sinking down, her tightness enveloping me until we both groaned. She started slowly, rolling her hips in that hypnotic rhythm, her hands braced on my chest. But I wasn’t content to just lie there—I thrust up to meet her, flipping the script, and soon we were moving together, sweat-slicked and breathless.
“God, Xander,” she panted, her nails scraping my abs. “Harder.”
I obliged, sitting up to wrap my arms around her, changing the angle so I could go deeper. We were face-to-face now, her breasts pressed against my chest, our breaths mingling as we kissed through the building heat. But I wanted more—I flipped us again, to her back, and hooked one of her legs over my shoulder for that perfect, mind-blowing depth. She cried out, her hands fisting the sheets, and I reached between us, circling her clit with my thumb until she was trembling.
“Close,” she whispered, her eyes locking on mine, dark and wild.
I grunted, picking up the pace, the bed creaking like it might give out. “Come for me, Tara.”
She did, shattering around me with a cry that echoed off the walls, her body clenching in waves that pulled me right over the edge. I followed with a roar, burying my face in her neck as pleasure crashed through me.
Afterward, we lay twisted in her sheets, her head on my chest. The city lights twinkled beyond her bedroom window like distant stars, but I couldn’t look away from her.
“I could get used to this,” she murmured, voice thick with satisfaction, her hand idly drawing circles on my pec.
“Me too,” I replied, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “But next time, let’s see if we can break the bed for real.”
She lifted her head, smirking. “Challenge accepted.” And just like that, we were laughing again, tangled up in each other, the night stretching out with endless possibilities.
Sunday unfoldedwith the languid pace of a dream, the kind where time stretches like taffy and every moment feels indulgent. I woke to the soft warmth of Tara’s body curled against mine, her dark hair fanned across my chest like a silk blanket, her leg thrown over my thigh in that possessive way that made my morning wood twitch with interest. Golden light filtered through her curtains, casting a hazy glow over the rumpled sheets, and I couldn’t help but trace my fingers along the curve of her spine, down to the dip of her waist, savoring the feel of her skin—smooth, warm, and all mine.
She stirred, letting out a contented hum that vibrated against my skin, her eyes fluttering open to meet mine. “Morning, soccer star,” she murmured, her voice husky from sleep and last night’s exertions. A slow, wicked smile spread across her face as she felt my arousal pressing against her hip. “Already? You’re insatiable.”
I grinned, rolling her onto her back in one fluid motion, pinning her gently beneath me. “Blame yourself, Doc. Waking up to you like this? It’s a miracle I lasted this long.” I dipped my head to kiss her neck, nipping at the sensitive spot just below her ear that always made her gasp. She did, arching into me, her hands sliding up my back to tangle in my hair.
“Flattery will get you everywhere,” she teased, but her breath hitched as I trailed kisses lower, across her collarbone, down to the swell of her breasts. “But if you think you’re getting round two without earning it?—”
“Oh, I’ll earn it,” I growled, capturing a nipple in my mouth and swirling my tongue around it until she moaned, her hips bucking up to meet mine. We moved together in that lazy, unhurried rhythm of morning sex—slow builds, teasing touches, her nails scraping my shoulders as I slid into her, filling her completely. “Fuck, Tara, you feel like heaven.”
“And you feel like trouble,” she shot back, wrapping her legs around my waist to pull me deeper, her eyes locked on mine with that intense, challenging gaze that drove me wild. We laughed through the gasps, the bed creaking under us as we chased release, her coming first with a cry that echoed in the quiet room, pulling me over the edge right after.
Eventually, hunger—the real kind—drove us to the kitchen. I rummaged through her fridge while she perched on the counterbeside me, wearing nothing but my discarded shirt from last night, the hem riding up her thighs in a way that was distracting as hell. “French toast it is,” I declared, cracking eggs into a bowl. “But if you keep swinging your legs like that, breakfast is gonna burn.”
She stole a slice of bread from the loaf, nibbling on it with mock innocence. “Me? Distracting? Never.” Then she leaned in, pressing a sticky, maple-syrup-flavored kiss to my cheek. “Though if it burns, we could always order in... or skip to dessert.”
I turned, caging her against the counter with my arms, my lips brushing hers. “Woman, you’re gonna be the death of me. But what a way to go.” I kissed her properly then, deep and hungry, until the sizzle of butter in the pan reminded me of the food. “Alright, back off, temptress. Let the master work.”
“Master, huh?” She hopped down, swatting my ass with a dish towel. “We’ll see about that. If this French toast isn’t Michelin-star worthy, you’re doing the dishes naked.”
