Page 100 of Cross Checked
His laugh was low and mean in the best way. “Pip, you called this casual while looking at me like you wanted to climb me in your kitchen.”
He was already moving, striding out of the kitchen and down the hall toward my bedroom. I was laughing, breathless, my sandals dangling from my toes. “We have to leave for Sunday dinner—”
“They can eat without us. Academic oral exam or some shit,” he shot back, shouldering my bedroom door open.
The afternoon sun streamed through my blinds, striping the rumpled comforter. In one fluid motion, he dropped me onto the bed. The bounce made me gasp, laughter still bubbling in my throat.
He didn’t give me a second to recover. His hands wrapped around my ankles and yanked, pulling me to the edge of the mattress until my ass was right on the precipice. His eyes, usually so full of easy humor, were dark. Focused.
“These have got to go,” he said, his fingers hooking into the waistband of my jean shorts.
He didn’t bother with the button or zipper. He just pulled, hard. The denim and the thin cotton of my panties slid down my thighs, over my knees, and off in one rough, efficient motion. The cool air of the room hit my exposed skin, and a fresh wave of nervous heat followed.
“Bossy.”
“You like bossy.”
“I tolerate bossy.”
“You melt for bossy.”
He pushed my knees apart, his hands firm on the inside of my thighs. He just looked for a moment, a slow, wicked grin spreading across his face.
“I do not.”
“Then prove me wrong.”
He dropped to his knees, his hands gripping my thighs to spread me open to his gaze. “Fuck, perfect.”
“Do not say that like you’re evaluating produce.”
“I’m evaluating my new favorite problem.” His hands rubbed over me, making me crazy.
“Cade,” I breathed, propping myself up on my elbows. My heart hammered against my ribs.
“FaceTime did not do you justice, Pip,” he murmured, his voice dropping into that teasing, dirty tone that made my stomach flip. “Your pussy is so much prettier in real life. Fuck.”
Before I could even process the compliment—or the sheer audacity of it—his thumb found my clit. A slow, deliberate circle that had my back arching off the bed. A sharp, sweet bolt of sensation shot straight through me.
“Sensitive,” he noted, his grin widening.
He did it again, a little faster, his eyes locked on my face, watching every flinch, every gasp. “You want this?”
I could only nod, my mouth dry.
This was happening.
We had crossed the line last night, sure, and when he kissed me all I wanted was this—but now he was in my bedroom, his thumb on my clit, looking at me like I was his favorite meal.
“You want this?” he asked again, thumb still making me dizzy.
“You know I do.”
“I know what your body says. I want your mouth to catch up.”
“Yes.”
He ducked his head, and his mouth was on me, hot and wet and perfect. Not slow and exploratory, but fast and confident, like he already knew exactly what I liked. His tongue was a flat, firm stroke right through my center, then a flickering, insistent pressure on my clit. A moan tore out of me, my head falling back.
