After This Night (Seductive Nights #2)(8)


by Lauren Blakely

“I bet you’re wearing something sexy. Some little lingerie or bra-and-panty set,” he said, keeping the talk to sexiness because he couldn’t handle anything more right now.

“Do you want to know?”

“I want you to paint the image in my eye.”

“I have on my bare legs.”

A bolt of heat shot through his body, as he pictured her. “I like it when you wear those.”

“And I hope you’re not disappointed, but I don’t have on a bra.”

An appreciative growl escaped his throat. “Mmm. That is an excellent look on you. You do bra-lessness well. And now I’m picturing those na**d shoulders of yours, kissing you all over, nibbling on your collarbone.”

“Biting down,” she said, continuing their imaginary travels.

“You taste so good, Julia. So sweet. Your skin is so damn sweet all over,” he said, and the memory of her taste rushed back to him, blasting into him like a collision of senses in his memory. Her collarbone, the fruity smell of her hair from whatever shampoo she used, so much more enticing than any other woman’s, the smell of her legs when she’d stepped out of the bath. And most of all, the scent of her arousal. The way he could tell just from inhaling her how he’d turned her on.

“Don’t you want to know what else I’m wearing?” she offered, her voice as naughty as could be.

He stretched out on his own bed, and parked his free hand behind his head. He was so hard right now from picturing her, but he had to restrain himself because he knew he couldn’t have her. But maybe this kind of teasing would be enough to get her out of his system. He knew this was trouble, he’d been there before, but this woman allured him like no other. She was a sexy drug and he wanted another hit.

“I do want to know,” he said, his voice a low rumble.

“Hold on a sec,” she said, and he heard a scatter of movement on her end. Then her voice again. “Go see.”

Those two words shot straight to his groin, and he was fighting a losing battle with resistance when he scrolled to his screen, and thumbed open his text message to find a picture. A flash of white lace, a glimpse of her hipbone, and then her hand just barely dipped into the waistband of her panties. Suggesting what she was about to do if things continued.

Did he want them to?

No. And yes. And no. And yes. But as he tried to retain the reasons for hanging up, they all fell to dust when she whispered, “I’m touching myself and I’m thinking of you.”

He groaned, unbidden. Everything in him craved her. Needed her. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

She didn’t answer right away, only breathed once, a low, sexy moan. In the span of those seconds, images flashed before him—her tied up to his bed, her bent over his desk, handcuffed to his balcony. Him pleasuring her, owning her body.

“Kissing you,” she whispered, and his blood stilled because he’d been expecting something dirtier from her sexy mouth.

“Yeah? You like that?”

“I wouldn’t like any of the other things if I didn’t like kissing you first,” she said, a gasp escaping her.

“What do you like about the way I kiss you?”

“Everything. Every single thing. Your lips are soft, and your stubble is rough, and you know exactly how to kiss me and make me melt for you,” she said, and something about her voice was different this time; needier, hungrier.

“I love it when you melt into my arms,” he said. “When I first see you and first kiss you.”

“And it’s like lightning or electricity or something,” she said, and her breathing intensified.

“Like we can’t get enough of each other, and can’t stop kissing,” he said, and a shudder wracked his body. “Tell me where your hand is now.”

“Between my legs. Moving faster,” she said, and let out a sexy cry that sent heat waves throughout his bones and blood.

“Are you writhing there on your bed?”

“Yes.”

“With your legs wide open?”

“Yes,” she said, her voice rising higher, and he could tell she was getting closer. “Are you touching yourself, Clay?”

“No,” he said, though he was sure he’d need to handcuff his wrists any second to keep from grabbing his erection.

“Please,” she said, her voice a delicious beg. That beg unwound him. It reached deep into his dirty mind and made him want to do everything with her, for her, to her.

“Please what?”

“Please touch yourself,” she moaned, and he pictured her rocking her h*ps into her hand. With that image burned in front of his eyes, her voice in his ear, he knew it wouldn’t take long. A few quick strokes, and he’d be there.

“Why do you want me to?”

“I like picturing you touching yourself. I like the image of your big, strong hand wrapped around your cock. Stroking yourself. Thinking of me.”

“Yeah? That gets you hot?” His hands were trembling. He wanted so badly to give in to this moment with her.

“So hot. Anything you do turns me on. Don’t you get that?”

“I think you just want to break me down. And make me think of you.”

“But you already are, aren’t you?”

“I already am,” he admitted.

“Then come with me.”

“What makes you think I’m going to come?”

“Because I know you. You will when you hear me in about thirty seconds,” she said, and words fell away. She’d been reduced to moans and cries and pants, and there was no f**king way he could resist. It was either a cold shower for the rest of the whole night, or taking matters into his own hands. So he did, and it didn’t take long for him to join her, pleasure rippling through every single vein as she cried out his name and he came hard and fast.

A minute later, after he’d washed his hands and returned to the dark of the bedroom, she spoke. “I wish I were there wearing your clothes right now.”

He laughed. “That’s what you want to be doing? Because I’d like to be f**king you if you were here.”

“Well, that too. But then I’d put on your shirt.”

“You like that, don’t you?”

“I know you do too,” she said.

“I do. Seeing you in my shirt and your heels is my kryptonite.”