Dirty Work - Regina Kyle Page 0,52

lower, to his balls. Cupping them. Squeezing them. Teasing them with my fingertips.

His hips jerk upward and he swears under his breath. “I wasn’t kidding about not lasting, Nightingale. I’m about to blow.”

He means it as a warning, a signal for me to pull off him. Instead, I double down, open wider and suck him in.

All. The. Way.

He’s balls-deep in my throat now, and I’m going down on him like a pro. He mutters incoherently as I flatten my tongue and make my lips tight so I can suck him harder, but every third word or so I catch a “yes,” “fuck” or “more.”

It’s only a few seconds before he comes hard. I stay with him until he’s done, swallowing every last drop. Then I give him one last, long, lingering lick and let go.

He drags a hand through his hair and makes a sound that’s somewhere between a sigh and a groan. “Have I told you how fucking fantastic you are at that?”

“Only after every blow job I’ve given you,” I say, laughing as I crawl back up his big, beautiful body. “But don’t stop. A girl can never get too many compliments.”

He pulls me in to him, hooking his leg over my hip and kissing my forehead. “Give me a few minutes, and I’ll be ready to go again.”

I snuggle closer, my head burrowing into his chest. The soft, fine hair sprinkled across his pecs tickles my nose. “No rush.”

I mean it. The sex—no, lovemaking—is great, but this is pretty great, too. Just being together. Skin to skin. Our chests rising and falling in unison. His heart beat slowing to a steady rhythm under my cheek.

After about five minutes, I feel his hand snake between us and move down my belly, toward my clit.

“So soon?” I ask, sucking in a ragged breath as he finds his target. “Are you sure you’re up to the challenge?”

He rocks his hips, pressing his resurgent cock against my stomach and showing me exactly how up he is.

“Challenge accepted.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Jake

I WAKE THE next morning with Ainsley wrapped around me like boa constrictor. Par for the course these days. What’s new is the bed we’re occupying.

Mine.

I wait for the panic to set in. Bringing her here last night was a spur of the moment decision. I don’t usually have women in my master suite. With enough spare bedrooms to accommodate the Knicks’ starting front court lineup, keeping my personal space just that—personal—has never been a problem.

The realization dawns that I could have done the same thing last night. Taken Ainsley to any of those other spare bedrooms. Or just shoved the hideous plastic alien off her bed and taken her right then and there.

But I didn’t. I brought her here because I wanted her here. It might have seemed spur of the moment, but my subconscious was telling me something.

It was telling me that this woman is different. Special. Someone I want in my life—and my bed—for more than a night or a week.

Instead of panic, a tidal wave of calm floods through me. Her, me, together like this—it feels right. More right than anything’s felt in longer that I can remember.

I brush her hair off her neck and leave a trail of kisses down her spine. She stirs but doesn’t wake. Unlike my cock, which is wide awake and raring to go.

But as good as a slow, sweet session of morning sex sounds right about now, that’s not what Ainsley needs. She needs to know how I feel about her. And what better way to start than by showing her, not telling her.

It’s like that old saying. Actions speak louder than words. And I want my actions to scream. I don’t want Ainsley to have any doubt about what I’m saying.

As carefully as I can, I slide out of bed, doing my best not to disturb her. I hold my breath as her eyelids flutter open, but they drift shut just as quickly and she rolls over, back in dreamland.

Although if her dreams are anything like mine—and Christ, I hope they are—she’ll wake up horny as hell with her hand down her pants.

Figuratively speaking, of course. Because when we sleep together, clothing is less than optional. It’s forbidden.

Remembering that Ainsley’s naked under my expensive sheets makes it that much harder to leave her, but somehow I manage to throw on a pair of boxer briefs and get my ass out the door. I pad barefoot into the kitchen and practically trip over Roscoe,

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