One Night Stand-In (Boyfriend Material #3) - Lauren Blakely Page 0,31

damn fiercely I can barely wait to get her naked.

Because I know, without a shadow of a doubt, this isn’t college all over again.

This isn’t a gentle, curious exploration. She’s not a woman who’s simply content to let a man touch her.

She’s become a woman who owns her pleasure fully.

And it turns me on more than ever before.

Because I’m not the guy I was before either, with a one-track mind.

I have many tracks, and they all lead to her.

The things I want to do to her now . . .

My mind runs away with dirty images as I kiss her harder, rougher. Our teeth scrape together. Our hands grab at each other. Our bodies grind, press, push.

In no time, she’s tugging at my T-shirt. “Take this off,” she commands.

I grin. “I knew you liked to give orders.”

“Yes, I’m demanding when I’m turned on. And I demand you get this off right now. Then me.”

Laughing, I reach for the hem, tug it over my head, and drop it to the floor.

“Fuck,” she mutters as she stares at my chest, her eyes glossy with sex.

“Fuck, what?” I ask innocently.

“Fuck your body. That’s what,” she says, dragging her nails down my chest.

“Yes. Yes, Lola. That’s the idea.”

Her fingers travel from my pecs down to my abs, tracing the grooves. “You’re concrete. Sexy, ridiculously hot concrete.”

“Why, thank you for the strangest compliment ever,” I say, laughing, but my laugh is cut short when she lingers on my stomach.

I shudder.

Because fuck, her hands.

She’s incredible.

Her touch is otherworldly.

It’s better than those French fries.

It’s hotter than our kiss.

I want to revel in it, linger on the sensation of her eager fingers roaming my body.

But I’m not a submissive kind of guy.

I’m a take-charge man. “How about some fair play, Dumont?”

“Let’s see what you’ve got,” she says in a purr that sends a bolt of lust straight down my spine directly to my cock.

I lift up her shirt, raising it over her head and groaning appreciatively when my eyes drink in her belly, the curves of her breasts, the hollow of her throat. “You are stunning,” I say, all gravel and truth.

No more toying.

No more teasing.

“So are you,” she whispers.

Roping my arms around her back, I unhook her pink bra, letting it fall to the floor. Then I indulge.

I cup and knead and squeeze those beauties. I dip my face to the valley of her breasts, licking a line between them, then lavishing attention on the two perfect globes. I don’t play favorites—I make sure each breast receives equal love from my tongue, my lips, and my teeth.

Since Lola loves bites. Something I’m learning tonight.

Something I never knew before.

I nibble on her flesh, and she moans, a long, feral sound. When I draw a nipple into my mouth and bite, she sighs with what sounds like delirious pleasure.

And as I bury my face between her tits, her hands curl around my head, pulling me impossibly closer.

“I could spend all night here,” I moan, but then I raise my face. “But that would be so unfair to your sweet, wet pussy.”

Her eyes widen. “How do you know I’m wet?”

I reach for her hand and slide it over my jeans, letting her feel the outline of my rock-hard erection. “Good guess that I’m doing to you what you’re doing to me?”

She smiles like a little devil, then takes my hand and slides it inside her jeans. Her eyes stay locked with mine the whole time, heating me up. She’s so fucking bold, and it’s always turned me on. Even more so now as she guides my hand over the panel of her panties, whispering, “You’re a good guesser.”

“Fuck, woman. You’re on fire,” I rasp as I touch her, feeling her wetness through the lace.

“Yes. Yes, I am. So maybe you ought to finish what you started, you ungentleman.”

As promised, I lift her up and toss her over my shoulder. She squeals my name playfully, and I love that sound.

I cross the living room toward her bedroom, turning on the light there too.

I set her on the bed and peel off her jeans as she kicks off her boots.

When she’s down to only a pair of pink panties, I nearly lose my mind with pleasure.

She’s spectacular.

But she also seems to have something on her mind. She holds up a hand, swallows, then speaks, a little nervous. “This doesn’t change anything, does it?”

I blink. “Change what?”

“Anything,” she repeats emphatically. “We’re still going to be friends. We’re going to do this differently. We’re