Page 66 of Divorced from Number Thirty-Eight
It has sensation rippling through me, need coiling tighter.
“I-I talked to you?” I ask breathlessly.
“Yup.” He leans back, eyes twinkling. “You asked me to pass the potato salad at Donnie and Laurie’s thing, and then at Ron and Laila’s, you said yes when I asked if you guys wanted refills.”
I blush. “I’m really not that good in social situations.”
“Liar,” he teases, reaching for the hem of my tank. “I’ve heard you cackling with the girls during your wine parties.” He tugs lightly and, yup, I was right.
That’s all it takes.
And there goes my shirt, dropping to catch on my hips, bunching at my waist, exposing my nipples to the cool morning air.
And his gaze.
Which is very not cool.
It burns into me, causing my nipples to tingle and tighten, desperate for his mouth.
“It’s not a wine party,” I manage to push out. “It’s Book Club.”
He blows out a breath and I gasp as the rush of warm air hits my nipple.
I want him to lean closer, to take it in his mouth, to suck it deep and a little rough and?—
“Do you actually read the book?”
Gasping, I glare down at him, my fingers tightening in his hair again. “I’m an author.”
“So you read the books,” he says.
I nibble at the inside of my mouth.
He grins. “Such a beautiful liar.”
“I read almost all the books.”
He lifts a hand, palms my breast, massaging gently…thus continuing to slowly drive me insane. “What does that mean?”
“Laurie picked a Winston Churchill biography o-once,” I say, words hitching when he traces his thumb over my nipple, sending lightning bolts of sensation between my legs. “Her dad recommended it ah-apparently,” I finish as he leans in and flicks his tongue out.
“Sounds interesting.”
“It was”—another lick—“drier than an overcooked pork chop.”
A chuckle that does all sorts of glorious things to my insides. “I don’t know.” His lips drift closer and closer to the hard bud of my nipple. “I think history can be interesting.” A long slow lick over the aching tip and my knees buckle.
But he has me, sweeping an arm around my middle and lifting me up onto the counter, the cold granite a shock of sensation against the backs of my thighs.
“Gray,” I moan in protest as he continues with his gentle touches, playing with me, taking care of me, slowly driving me to the edge of reason—something that has me reaching for him again, fingers clutching at his shoulders, nails biting into his flesh.
He doesn’t seem to mind.
“Fuck, these things are beautiful,” he mutters as he palms my breasts, massaging them, running his fingers back and forth over my nipples.
Slow and easy.
As though I’m not on fire.
