Page 72 of Cold as Stone
Heat floods my cheeks. “Lee, I?—”
“I’ve been dreaming about you every night. About the sounds you make when you come, about how you taste, about all the things I’m going to do to you when this bet is over.”
My breath catches. “What things?”
His smile is pure sin. “You’ll find out. Soon.”
The next few hours pass in a haze of sexual tension so thick it’s practically visible. Lee helps with the evening crowd, and every accidental touch—his hand brushing mine when he hands me a glass, his body pressed against my back when he reaches around me for something—sends electricity shooting through my nervous system.
By 9 p.m., I’m ready to climb the walls.
By 9.30 p.m., I’m seriously considering forfeiting the bet.
By 10 p.m., I’m vibrating with need and Lee looks like he’s barely holding on to his sanity. Finally, as the clock ticks over to 11 p.m., I reach for the bell on the counter to call last drinks—it is a Wednesday after all. But Lee beats me to it. He rings that bell like he’s calling for help.
“Pay up,” he bellows. “And get thefuckout!”
The locals ignore him, taking their sweet time. When the last customer leaves at 11:23, I flip the sign to CLOSED with hands that aren’t quite steady.
“Mercy has already left,” I say, not turning around. “Said she’d come in early to clean up after tonight.”
“Smart woman.”
I can hear him moving behind me, his footsteps deliberate and measured. When I finally turn, he’s standing in the middle of the bar, hands loose at his sides, watching me with an intensity that steals my breath.
“Thirty-seven minutes,” he says.
“Thirty-six,” I correct, glancing at the clock.
“You want to wait?”
The question hangs between us, loaded with possibility. We could wait. We could honor our bet, sit on opposite sides of the bar and count down the final minutes like civilized people.
Or…
“No,” I whisper. “I don’t want to wait any longer.”
Something snaps in his expression. In three long strides, he’s across the room, his hands cupping my face as his mouth crashes down on mine. The kiss is desperate, hungry, two weeks of pent-up desire exploding between us like a dam bursting.
I melt into him, my hands fisting in his shirt as I kiss him back with everything I have. This is what I’ve been craving, what I’ve been dreaming about—his hands on me, his mouth claimingmine, the solid heat of his body pressed against every soft curve of mine.
“Fuck the bet,” he growls against my lips. “I need you. Right now.”
“Yes,” I breathe. “God, yes.”
He lifts me easily, setting me on the bar as his hands work at the buttons of my shirt. I reach for his belt, but he catches my wrists.
“Not fucking yet,” he says, his voice rough with control. “I’ve been waiting for two weeks to get you completely naked. Don’t you fucking dare deny me this.”
“Lee—”
“Trust me.”
I do. Completely and without question.
Every brush of his fingertips leaves goosebumps in their wake. When I’m finally naked, perched on the edge of the bar in nothing but a flush and the shimmer of neon light, he steps back.
His gaze drags over me slowly. Possessively. Like he’s trying to decide where to start the feast.
