Page 117 of The Bad Girl List

When he looks in my eyes, it feels like the world has stopped spinning. I can’t see anything beyond Trevor Moretti.

“Okay,” I say.

“Okay?” He leans forward, as if he needs to be certain.

“Yes, okay. I’ll go home with you.”

CHAPTER 39

Dress

DOMINIQUE

Trevor and I stumble through the open slider door of his bungalow, our hands all over each other. Tequila is yapping in excitement, hopping in a circle around our feet.

“I took the Beamer because I was afraid the battery would die again on the truck.” He says these words as he runs his hands beneath the dress and up my thighs. “I couldn’t lose you to Kevin over a fucking car battery.”

“Let’s not talk about him.” I tackle the buttons of his shirt, wishing I could rip it open the way he had on me that first night.

“I love this dress.” One hand slides around my waist and up my back, searching for the zipper. The other hand runs over the lace of my thong. “Is this the one we saw in the shop window that night at Platitude?”

“It is. I bought it for myself even though I can’t afford it. Number six on the list.”

“It was worth it. You look fucking gorgeous.” His fingers latch onto the zipper. He kisses my throat as he pulls it down.

The dress slides off my shoulders. Trevor pushes it past my hips. It falls in a puddle around my feet.

“You look better without it.” He sucks on the base of my neck. His hands are everywhere–my back, my stomach, my breasts, and my neck. He frees my hair from its two buns, letting the rubber bands fall to the floor.

I kick off my shoes as he continues to walk me backwards toward his room. As we pass his fireplace, I pause to look over at it, expecting to see the pictures of him and Elle.

But they’re gone. The only picture is the family portrait and the sketch I did of Tequila and his truck.

“Dom.” He touches the side of my face, gently turning my head to look at him. His fingers cup my cheek. “There’s no one here except me and you.”

When he looks at me, I know he means it. I don’t know what’s happened to him over the past few days, but he’s different now.

I throw my arms around his neck, kissing him, tasting him, losing myself in him. He picks me up. He carries me, feet dangling above the floor, toward his bedroom.

“I want you naked.” I yank his shirt out of his jeans, still fumbling with the stupid buttons. Why are there so many damn buttons?

Trevor solves the problem by pulling the shirt off over his head. I unbutton his fly and shove his pants down. His boxer briefs are still in the way. I yank those down, too.

He gasps when I grab his shaft. He is hard and thick and hot as hell. I stroke him a few times, then reach down to cup his balls. He hisses and bites my neck–then stumbles as his pants tangle around his legs. We stagger sideways together, laughing, neither of us letting go.

The only thing that keeps us from falling is the glass slider. We bump into it and catch our balance.

“No more pants.” I kneel, yanking his pants and boxer briefs the rest of the way down. As soon as his feet are free of them, he kicks them aside.

Trevor Moretti is finally–finally–completely naked for me. Broad shoulders, washboard stomach, trim waist, and a cock that is long and rock hard–all for me. He is so gorgeous, so perfect. I stare at him, momentarily forgetting myself as I soak him in.

A low rumble rises from his throat as he watches me watching him. He throws me up against the slider door, his hips grinding into me. His fingers fumble with my bra.

“I hate these fucking things.” He yanks. I feel the snaps come free as he rips the bra away and drops it to the floor. “That’s better.”

“You’re going to have to buy me new underwear if you keep ripping the ones I have.”

“Not a problem.”

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