Page 73 of Mr. Hook-up

Where it was the wettest.

Where I’d been licking.

And then I rubbed my lips over hers, knowing I could do this anytime I wanted tonight and again in the morning, and that was the best feeling in the world. I kept my mouth against her as I whispered, “Tell me you’re ready to come again.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Drake

Come ...again?

I didn’t know how that was possible.

I didn’t even know if I could.

My body was still reeling from his tongue.

The only time I’d ever felt anything like that was the first time he’d put his face there.

And once again, he’d sent me to places I didn’t think I could reach. Not just from his licking, which was the most incredible thing ever, but also from the way he was fingering me.

That spot. Deep inside. It was explosive.

But something told me that was just an appetizer. My screaming hadn’t nearly peaked; my voice was going to go much higher and get much louder tonight. And that Easton hadn’t even really gotten started—he was going to give my body even more experiences, sensations I’d only ever felt with him.

“Ready ... to come again,” I replied.

He was still kneeling between my legs. His mouth still appearing like it was hungry, getting ready to devour me a second time.

“Again, yes.” He rubbed my thighs. “And again after that.”

I’d dreamed about this. First with Mr.Boston and then with Mr.Hottie, as Saara had been calling him.

But it was a fantasy.

I wasn’t sure—I didn’t necessarily believe—that in either case it would ever become a reality.

“I”—I filled my lungs, inhaling as hard and as fast as I could—“don’t know if I can.”

He touched the center of my lips as though quieting me. “Let me determine that. You just focus on screaming.”

He got onto his feet and began to strip off his clothes. I’d never seen Easton in shorts, never mind getting little slices of his uncovered body.

Which was happening now.

Rendering me completely speechless.

Except for when I groaned, “Holy shit,” as his sweater dropped to the floor. He stared at me, never breaking eye contact as he began to unbutton his jeans. “You’re not even real.”

His arms had looked extremely muscular when I’d been sitting across from him at the bar and he’d pushed up his sleeves, and I remembered touching them when he’d held me against the wall in the stairwell.

But with his shirt off, I could see every ripple.

Every vein.

Every inch of definition.

My stare rose to his chest, his pecs etched, his skin tight and covered with a light dusting of hair that trailed down the center of his torso, where the dark strands met his abs. Each one was carved into his body, like someone had outlined them in black marker, until they disappeared below the waist of his boxer briefs.

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