For Seven Nights Only - Sarah Ballance Page 0,49

else.”

She shook her head. “I think the problem was you thinking about someone else.”

“Actually,” he countered, “I think it’s you thinking about me thinking about someone else.”

“Are you?” she asked. Shyly. Stupidly. Because there was only one answer she wanted to hear, and she wasn’t sure it was the one he would give.

But he did.

“You,” he said. “Only you. All the time you.”

“I don’t want to hear your lines,” she said. “I’d rather you just come right out and say you wanted me because you were bored or didn’t have other options, rather than pretend I’m your first choice.”

“I always have options,” he said, oh-so-helpfully. “But I’m not pretending. I told you that.”

“And then you practically shoved your brothers away from me, one by one.”

To his credit, he faltered. “What was I supposed to say? You couldn’t get a date and begged me to help you out?”

She scowled. “You could have said I’m a friend with definite girlfriend potential.”

His eyes darkened. “Well, I’m sorry, but I wanted to enjoy our last two dates without feeling like a placeholder for someone else. Is that what you wanted? For me to hook you up with one of my brothers?”

Yeah. Not really. Maybe about ten orgasms ago, but that ship had sailed. She folded her arms across her chest, determined to put some kind of wall between them. “You also told me you don’t date.”

“Yet I clearly committed to seven. And you need to relax. I have an idea for that.”

“I just bet you do.” Sarcasm littered her tone.

Before she’d finished the sentence, he pulled something out of his pocket. She’d barely figured out he held a condom before he tossed it her way. She caught it, barely, and stared.

“Put it on me,” he said.

“What?”

“Condom. On. Now.” He grinned devilishly. “If, of course, you accept the challenge.”

“You want me to…do that?”

“It’s a basic life skill,” he said with a hapless shrug. “You have to know how to use them. It’s one of those things every responsible adult should know.”

She rolled her eyes. “Fine.”

He offered no help, leaving her to unzip his pants and drag out his erection. He hissed when her hands made contact, so she grinned and took her sweet time moving up and down his shaft.

“That’s not part of proper application technique,” he said.

“Sorry,” she lied.

“Are you wet?”

She eased her palms along his length. “That’s not proper conversation for the kitchen.”

“I think we’re closer to the sofa than the sink. And if you’re not, tell me now.”

With an exaggerated sigh, she released him and tore into the condom. She’d only managed to roll it about halfway down his shaft before he scooped her up and tossed her onto the sofa, tearing at her clothes as he came down on top of her. In one swift motion, he rolled the rest of the condom on and plunged inside her.

“Shit, you’re wet.”

She wriggled her hips and pretended she didn’t already see an entire constellation of stars. “And getting bored.”

Surprise hit his eyes, then was lost to a smirk. “Challenge accepted?”

“Yes,” she whispered. But he was already driving inside her, his hips rocking so hard the sofa squeaked and edged across the hardwood. She realized he had one foot on the ground and made a mental note to compliment his use of leverage because Christ she was dizzy. She fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, only half seeing them through the blur of sex, then gave up and shoved her hands under the hem and held on. She probably left claw marks in his back for days, but the feeling of holding on to him, the muscles of his back and ass flexing and bunching as he throttled hard against her, would be well worth the apology. The air echoed with the smack of skin and someone—probably her—making the kind of noises that would put the opera lady to shame. And then somehow he managed to get a grip on her clit, and his ever so casual grip sent her flailing. Every cliché in the world happened at that moment. Fireworks, starbursts, cannon fire… And her vaginal walls must have squeezed the hell out of Sawyer, because when he came, he jolted so hard against her G-spot that he sent her fumbling down yet another proverbial flight of stairs or into the abyss or depths or whatever the in thing was now.

He slid off of her and hit the floor. On the way down, he muttered, “Fuck.”

She laughed. Sort of. Mostly she was