Page 30 of Dirty Work

“I’ve noticed. Which means I’m the winner of this game. And as the victor, I get the spoils.”

His eyes rake me up and down. I can feel my nipples hardening, rubbing against the soft cotton of my tank top.

“The spoils?” The words come out on a puff of air. I surprised they come out at all, to be honest. My brain’s ability to form coherent thought has been severely compromised by the miles and miles of toned, tanned flesh on display across the table.

“You.”

The owner of said toned, tanned flesh crooks a finger, beckoning me to him. I stand on shaky legs and cross to him, almost naked, totally vulnerable.

“You’ve got me.” My arms dangle awkwardly, like a department store mannequin. I pop a hip and put a hand there, striking a pose I hope reads more shy seductress than deer in headlights. “What do you plan to do with me?”

“Anything you want. But I’d like to start with a little striptease. Shirt first. I want to see those beautiful breasts.”

Jake polishes off his brandy and smiles up at me. Yep. The Cheshire cat grin is back. I’m on fucking fire, and he’s sitting there cool as a goddamn cucumber, issuing orders like a drill sergeant.

A dirty drill sergeant who knows exactly what to say to make me cream my pretty panties.

I reach for the hem of my tank top and yank it over my head, quick, like pulling off a Band-Aid. It might not be the most seductive striptease, but I’m afraid if I wait too long, if I think too much, I’ll remember all the reasons why this is bad idea.

Instinctively, my hands go to my chest, covering my more than generous boobs. I’ve never felt so exposed as I do at this moment. Physically and emotionally.

Jake shakes his head and motions for me to lower them. “Don’t hide from me, Nightingale. I want all of you.”

All of me.That’s what I’m afraid of. That this man will wind up possessing not only my body, but my heart and soul, too.

Still, I can’t seem to resist him. And I don’t want to. I let my hands drift to my sides. He sucks in a harsh breath and strokes his growing erection through his boxers. It’s the sexiest damn thing I’ve ever seen.

“Now the panties,” he growls.

I push aside my self-consciousness and slide the scrap of lace over my hips and down my legs, kicking it off when it reaches my ankles.

“Fuck, you’re gorgeous.” The hand on his cock picks up speed.

I mentally will him to ditch the boxers so I’m not the only one in my birthday suit. Okay, I confess. That’s not the only reason. I want to see him touch himself without a layer of cotton between his fingers and his dick. No,want’s not a strong enough word. I need it, like I need air and water.

But my Jedi mind trick skills must be rusty, because instead of losing his briefs he takes his hand from his cock and grabs my wrist, pulling me closer.

“I like this.” He releases my arm and flicks my bellybutton chain.

“And this.” His finger moves lower, through the neatly trimmed patch of curls above my pussy, making me shiver.

“I showed you mine,” I say, echoing his words from earlier. “Now you show me yours.”

With agonizing slowness, he lifts his hips and hooks a thumb under the waistband of his boxers.

“Tease.” I let out a low moan as I watch him drag his underwear down his powerful thighs and perfectly muscled calves. It should be awkward with only one hand, but that somehow manages to make the agonizingly slow journey even more sexy.

After what seems like an eternity, the briefs hit the floor. He kicks them aside and spreads his legs invitingly. “Straddle me.”

My clit swells at his hotly whispered command. I do as he asks, brushing my warm, wet, center against his equally warm, wet cock as I climb on top of him. The brief contact makes me want more. More skin on skin. More friction and heat. I brace my palms against the back of the chair and lower myself onto him, but he grabs my waist, stopping me.

Something inside me cries out in protest. I’m panting. Desperate. I don’t have time for slow kisses or soft touches. I need him inside me. Now.

I suck in a breath, working up the courage to ask for what I want.

“Please,” I gasp. “Fuck me.”

CHAPTER TWELVE