Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 92070 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92070 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
He takes my hand and brings it to the waistband of his jeans. "When you do this for real, take the shirt off first."
"Huh?"
"It's not a sexy look for a guy."
"Unzipped jeans?"
"Shirt, no pants. Unless you're into humiliating him."
"Would that really stop you?" I ask.
"No. But I can get out of my clothes pretty fucking fast."
"No. Shirt first." My entire body flames. I'm on fire. I'm completely and totally on fire.
He nods and brings his lips to mine.
I kiss him back as I slip my hand under his shirt. A soft brush of his hard stomach. The waistband of his jeans. The fabric beneath the button.
Only low enough I feel the rise of the fabric. Not enough I feel him.
I want to feel him. I really, really want to feel him. All of him.
I force my thoughts to our task. Practice removing clothes. Practice for a date with another man.
Whatever this is—
I can't get too carried away.
My thoughts dissolve as his tongue dances with mine. Who cares what the hell we're doing as long as we're doing it together?
My body moves for me.
I lift his shirt. He breaks the kiss so I can bring it over his head. Then he takes my hand and brings it to the waist of his jeans. He does it slowly, like he's a present I'm desperate to unwrap.
He is.
I am.
I really, really am.
I undo the button of his jeans.
The zipper is snug, especially with the, uh, state of affairs, but I nudge it an inch at a time, until the denim falls away, and there's only that one thin layer between my hand and his skin.
Thank god he's wearing the boxer briefs with buttons.
Thank god my hand isn't on him.
Why isn't my hand on him? I need my hand on him.
"Val." His voice is pure desire.
And I need every ounce of it. "Is this…" I swallow hard. "Can I?"
"You sure?"
"Yeah."
He wraps his hand around my wrist and brings my palm to his stomach, to the skin just below his belly button.
Then lower.
Lower.
Until I can feel him hard against me. The stupid boxers are still in the way. There's that thin layer of cotton between us.
But he still feels so fucking good.
Over the underwear.
That's the deal, right?
This is over. This is fair game. This is a game with dangerous rules, but this is fair game.
I take his hand and bring it to my chest.
He cups me over my bra.
It's not enough. The fabric is too thick. I hate the stupid, thick fabric.
Why can't I feel his hands on my skin?
Why can't I feel him?
"Touch me." The words fall off my lips without passing through my brain. "If it's not…" I take his hand and bring it to my back, to the clasp of my bra. "It's been so long and I miss it so badly."
He undoes the clasp and pushes the garment off my shoulders.
He groans as he cups me. "How's that?"
Too good. Way too good. "Good."
"What do you like?"
"I don't remember."
"You want to find out?"
"Fuck yes."
He runs his lips over my neck as he traces my nipple with his thumb. Up and down. Left and right. Fast and slow.
Then circles, clockwise, counterclockwise.
"Slow," I say. "Like you could do it all day."
"Right," he mumbles into my neck. "Like in high school."
I nod.
"How long did you go with the religious guy?"
"Hours sometimes."
"Did he last all that time?" he asks.
"Usually."
"But not always?"
No. Sometimes he finished while we were making out. At the time, it felt like too much.
Right now, thinking of Dare wanting me so badly he comes in his jeans?
It's so fucking hot I can't stand it.
"I set a timer," he says. "For when we have to leave."
"In an hour?"
"Give or take." He toys with me again. "But I don't want to wear you out."
"No. It's good." It's way too good and completely wrong—my best friend revving me up for my non-date with another guy—I don't care. "If you can make it."
"Is that a dare?"
"Yes."
"You know I can't turn those down."
Chapter Twenty-Five
DARE
Thank fuck for the alarm. For my sense to set the alarm half an hour early.
When my phone blares with Val's favorite song, I'm one more brush from coming in my pants. Or developing a permanent case of blue balls.
One of the two.
Of course, my body shares none of my logic. My hands stay on Val's chest, on her perfect breasts. My fingers make one last play—
One perfect tease that makes her breath hitch and her thighs shake—
Before I find the will to pull back.
I sit up, I right my jeans, I leave the alarm blaring until I'm all the way in my clothes, then I help her into hers.
And, yeah, the way she groans as I pull her dress over her head (thank fuck she fixed her bra herself) is exquisite torture, but at least she's in her dress now.