How to Date the Guy You Hate by Julie Kriss Page 0,53
everyone else. That was the whole point of this. We were supposed to be polite, like they were. We were supposed to fit in.
Dirty-texting each other in our B and B at night was not part of the plan. Me writhing in my bed, arching my back and coming while I tried to be quiet, was not part of the plan. Me picturing him naked while I got wet during the ceremony was not part of the plan. But I couldn’t be the person I had planned to be, the person I was supposed to be, when I was with Jason.
He was my weakness. Which he proved once again when he leaned down seconds after the ceremony finished and said, “Where can we go?”
I forgot everything when he did that. So while the guests were milling about on the beach, shaking hands with the bride and groom, and the caterers were coming out with chilled drinks and snacks, and the photographer was getting ready for an hour of post-ceremony photos, I yanked Jason’s arm and we retreated to the B & B, which was empty. I pulled him up the stairs to my fussy little single-bed room, shut the door, and kissed him like I was drowning.
He kissed me back. He put his hands on my shoulders, and he cupped my jaw while I rose on my toes and slid my arms under his jacket. He smelled like man-heaven, and because he’d shaved this morning his mouth was warm and smooth and expert. I explored the sensation while I palmed his back, then moved my hands to his front again and worked the buttons of his silk vest, bottom to top.
When I popped the top button, he broke the kiss and gently grabbed my wrists. He glanced down at me with his dark, long-lashed eyes. “I’m picturing you on that bed last night,” he said.
I looked over my shoulder to the bed. “I was there,” I said. “Picturing you.”
“I know you were.” His voice was a little hoarse. “I’m going to ruin this dress if you don’t take it off.”
I lifted my arm and indicated the zipper, which was sewn into the side of the dress instead of the back. Holly called side-zip dresses “single girl dresses,” because you could zip yourself in and out of them without a man’s help. Which I’d done two hours ago.
But now he helped me with the fussy little hook-and-eye setup, and then he unzipped it for me, while I took off the belt and lifted my arms and let the dress fall away. It felt decadent, having a man help me out of my glamorous dress. I stepped out of the skirt wearing only my black bra, black cotton panties, and black heels. I felt like the sexiest woman alive.
In that moment, Jason agreed with me. He tossed the dress onto the bed behind me, his gaze taking me in. I felt a thrum of excitement that he was dressed and I wasn’t. He ran his fingers over my waist, my belly, and up to cup my breasts through the bra.
I pushed his jacket off, and then the vest. Now he was in his white shirt and tie, his dress pants, his big, muscled body hard beneath the expensive fabric. I had no idea who had tailored this suit for him, but it must have been someone who appreciated his body almost as much as I did, because there wasn’t a stitch out of place.
He kissed me again, and he tasted so good I melted into him. Instead of putting me on the bed, he backed me up against the dressing table, a low, waist-high thing made so that ladies of the past could sit and do their makeup. It had an antique mirror in an ornate frame and a few small drawers. When the lip of the table hit my ass, I paused long enough to slide my panties down my hips and then I hiked back onto the table, kicking the panties off my high-heeled foot and opening my legs.
Jason watched every move. “Jesus, Megan,” he said in a choked voice when my legs opened.
I grabbed him by the belt and tugged him forward. “Come here,” I said.
He braced his hands on the table on either side of me and kissed me again, pressing my shoulders against the cool glass of the mirror. I slid my hand down over his pants below the belt, feeling how hard he was. I had