Calm, cool Ethan Booker had a reputation for self-control, but none of his legendary control came into play now. She belatedly appreciated the extended foreplay he’d subjected her to, because the man fucked without restraint, and he’d primed her so thoroughly she didn’t need any.
Fortunate, since the belt binding her ankles and the impossible angle he had her in left her little more than a passenger on this ride. She struggled to hold her position—hips lifted, thighs as wide as possible—because every time he thrust, the base of his cock crushed her clit, pumping pleasure into her bloodstream like a drug.
Over the squeak of her ancient bedsprings, and the smack of flesh, she heard his voice. “Look at me.”
She forced her attention from the view of his abs framed by the V of her thighs. His tense jaw, and the feverish slashes of color riding high on his cheekbones told her he was close. Dark, intense eyes lured hers.
“Next time, Lauralie. Next time, you’ll come on my tongue. Right before I drape you over that pristine white sofa myself, and fuck you until we break the damn thing, but this first time, I want to see your face.” He surged deeper, reaching a place inside her where fear and excitement dwelled in a precarious balance, and stirring the unstable mix into something even more volatile.
“Next time,” he growled, and thrust again. The words thundered in her ears. Pleasure brutalized her, first coming in waves so rapid and overwhelming they pounded her like a singular force, holding her under, denying her a chance to breathe. Slowly they separated, refining into distinct experiences she could ride out—crests that lifted her to dizzying peaks, followed by shallow valleys of recovery time—and then those eventually subsided and left her floating, warm and safely anchored by the weight of Booker’s body. At some point her brain surfaced, and the self-preserving part started in on her.
One lousy rule, and you broke it.
Her satisfied hormones didn’t give a single shit. It was a dumb rule.
Maybe, but lying here feeling safe and anchored is dumb, too. Wish him a happy New Year, and say good—
He shifted, leaving her cold and startlingly bereft. A moment later, careful fingers undid the strap at her ankle, and slid her sandal off. It landed with a thump on her rug while he moved on to the other foot dangling limply over his shoulder. An instant later a second thump sounded. “I like the shoes, but they served their purpose.”
The same could be said for her, and she’d been happy to serve, but she’d reaped more than her fair share of rewards. The gentlemanly behavior wasn’t necessary. She forced her eyes open and raised her head. “I’m sure you have early plans”—his thumb took a slow sweep along her arch—“tomorro…ooohhh.”
“Feel good?” His other thumb followed, at the same time his lips found two small, old scars just above her ankle. She started to push herself up, but then he gently swiveled her ankle, taking it through the full range of motion.
Her neck gave out and her head sank back into the pillow. Good? It’s possible he’d just given her the third out-of-body experience of the night. “Yuh.”
“But I interrupted you.” He moved on to her other foot. “You were saying?” he prompted as he eased his fingers between her toes and slowly flexed them forward, and back.
“I was saying”—the scrape of teeth along her instep scattered her thoughts—“I…can’t…remember.”
“Roll over, so I can do this right.” He phrased it almost like a request, even though he was already shifting her onto her stomach.
She let him put her where he wanted her, moaning her gratitude when his thumb pressed its way from her big toe to the back of her knee.
“Lauralie?”
“Hmm?”
His thumbs slid up the center of her thigh, and heat licked into parts of her she could have sworn were too exhausted to respond. “The only plans I have for the next several hours involve you.”
Revised rule. He can be in your bed. He can massage any part of you he chooses, with his hands, his mouth, and his very talented dick. But as soon as it’s done, he leaves. You absolutely, positively cannot spend the night wrapped in Ethan Booker’s arms.
Chapter Four
Laurie blinked herself awake and focused on the glowing red face of the clock on her night table. Quarter ‘til five. The one morning she could sleep in, but something had pulled her out of dreamland. A noise, or—
A muscle-corded arm settled across her waist, and a big hand rested along the sensitive skin below her navel. Long fingers extended perilously close to territory they’d exploited repeatedly. That territory swelled and dampened with frightening eagerness at the prospect of being exploited again, but the even breaths fanning her shoulder told her the man responsible for the reaction could literally pull it out of her in his sleep.
The bargain she made with herself last night came back to haunt her. You absolutely, positively cannot spend the night wrapped in Ethan Booker’s arms.
If you get up now, technically, you haven’t broken your rule.
True, and yet…the thought trailed off as Booker shifted again. Something hot and hard jutted into the gap between her thighs. Mmm. So he spent the night? What was the big deal? She had her shit together. She had nothing to hide.
Booker’s masterful cock slid a little higher.
Since when have you cared about following rules? Just as she prepared to roll over and break all kinds of rules, she caught movement through the sheer white curtains covering the sliding door that led to her little patio. Seconds later someone bumped into the glass. A muffled snicker followed, and Laurie’s stomach sank. She knew that laugh.
Happy fucking New Year. She slipped out of bed fast, and silently crossed the room, biting back a groan as sore muscles in exceedingly personal places complained about the sudden call to action. The curtain provided minimum protection for her modesty, but she drew it back far enough to glare through the glass and stop the woman on the other side from knocking.