Page 8 of The Playboy

That feeling, that nagging need, it was still there.

“I know that look,” Cooper said.

A quick glance told me he was talking to me.

I set the small glass on the table and washed the shot down with some vodka before I turned toward my brother. “What look?”

I broke eye contact with him to gaze in her direction. She was still on the stage, bending as though her body were waves and her arms were surfacing through the water.

The only thing that had changed since the last time I’d looked in this direction was my desire to be standing beneath her, gazing up at what I assumed was the most beautiful pussy.

A pussy that, from the way I was already feeling, had the power to bring me to my fucking knees.

“The look of a guy who’s so lost in his thoughts that it wouldn’t matter if a tsunami burst through the glass wall and took out this entire club. You still wouldn’t take your eyes off her.”

I licked the vodka from my lips and faced my brother. “Take a look for yourself.” I paused. “Do you blame me?”

“I don’t want to talk about her. I want to talk about you.”

I gripped the glass even harder and stood. “There is no me at this moment. Right now, all I can think about is us. Watch and see how it’s done.” I nodded toward the group, knowing Cooper was the only one who could hear me. “I’ll be back.”

Before anyone could ask where I was going, I rushed through the VIP area and descended the stairs. I didn’t check to see if there was anyone in front of me. My eyes stayed on her.

Fixed on her movement.

Her expression.

Her beauty that was consuming me.

It took longer than I wanted to get to her; the dance floor was packed, and I had to weave my way around the crowd, heading toward the section of the club where she was suspended above. When I reached the ladder that she’d used to get on the stage, I did exactly what I’d planned.

I stood beneath her, and I glanced up.

Fuck me.

I drew in the deepest, most obsessive breath as I took in the sight.

A pair of dark panties covered her pussy, but I could still see the inside of her thighs.

Her muscle.

Skin.

She was addictive.

Provocative.

Consuming.

And now that I was this close, I could see the dimple that radiated from her left cheek—a trait that made her even sexier—the small freckle on the center of her thigh, and tiny toes that gripped the soles of her strappy sandals.

I searched the air, determined to get a whiff of her.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

It took a moment before I realized she had stopped dancing, spoken those words, and was looking down at me.

I had never been more grateful to be in a quieter pocket of the club, where the music wasn’t as loud, so I could actually hear her perfectly.

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