Page 52 of Never Date A Player
“Try what?”
“My name.”
He drops his head back until it rests against the tall log. “Genevieve.” His voice is low and seductive without trying, and my gaze lands on his mouth.
“See?” I clear my throat. “Nothing happened. The only thing I was thinking about was the way you said it.”
His head tips forward, eyes focused on my face. “How did I say your name?”
“Sexy.”
“Hmmm. Last time I was touching you when I said it. Maybe we should perform an experiment.”
I laugh because it’s such a guy thing to suggest. I’ve never seen this side of Lewis—the playful, flirty side. “What did you have in mind?”
He runs a warm hand down my bare arm. I’ve been so focused on him, I didn’t notice how effing cold it is. “Genevieve,” he says, and inches closer, “are you cold?”
I shiver at the sound of his voice, low and gruff. “Yes.” I follow his lead and press my side against his.
He wraps his arms around my shoulders. “How’s this? Experiment going okay so far, Genevieve?”
The deep rumble of his voice when he utters my name and his full, sensual mouth, with the naughty scar at the corner that stands out like one of the slivers of the moon on the water are mind-numbingly hot. “Good. We’re good.”
He tilts my jaw up, brushing my lips with his. “Genevieve, you taste good.”
I’m about to tell him he does too, when his mouth returns and I lose track of my thoughts, our tongues tangling. He pulls me close and I burrow into his chest, running my hands up and down his sides, over his stomach. His muscles tense.
He pulls away with a concerned look. “Genevieve?—”
“Your experiment worked. I’m cured,” I whisper, busily pulling his shirt from his suit pants and kissing his neck.
I’ve fantasized about what lies beneath Lewis’s buttoned-up exterior, reaching the core of him. I love the heat in his eyes as he watches me. My fingers trail over the ridges of his stomach and he covers my mouth with his.
He leans me back, cradling my head above the sand, and kisses me with a tenderness and heat that has my belly shooting sparks down my thighs. The bottom of my fitted dress cuts into my hips, making a northbound route to my waist. He feels so good above me, and by good, I mean amazing.
I wrap my leg around the back of one of his and run my hands over the dip in his lower back. I squeeze his muscled ass.
“Gen.” There’s a desperate tone in his voice.
I lick the scar on the corner of his mouth—still haven’t figured out where he got it. Will investigate later. “Shhh, I’m busy,” I mumble as I run my lips over his chin, his jaw.
“It’s—we have to slow down.”
I lean back. “What’s wrong?” Am I coming on too strong? It would be a first, but given how I react to him, entirely possible.
He runs his hands over my waist, raising my thigh higher and gliding up the sensitive underside with his fingers. “We should either slow down or stop. You have no idea how sexy you are. I’m trying to not take this places you’re not ready to go.”
He’s talking about sex? And he’s worried about what I want? I’ve never had a guy take things slow. They’re usually trying to see how far they can get. Is this some kind of reverse psychology?
Let’s test the theory. “Okay.”
He kisses me, slow and tender, then pulls away.
Huh? “Wait—” My thought gets cut off because there’s a massive breeze in places usually covered, and hello, my dress is hiked to my panties.
Lewis tugs down the fabric.
Did he just put my dress to rights? What kind of guy is he? “I mean, we could stop, if you want to,” I say, “but we don’t need to stop.”
