The What If Guy - Lauren Blakely Page 0,18
that’s what Bryn wants. I think she wants this.
My hand slides into the back of her hair. She leans into my palm. My fingers tighten around the strands.
I pull.
Not so hard as to draw attention from the front seat, where the football fan waxes on about a pie from Mario’s in Hoboken. Just hard enough to test my date’s reaction.
She draws a sharp breath. “Ohhh, that place sounds amazing.”
“Yeah, it’s so good. Makes you want to devour the whole pie,” he says as he steers the car along Seventh Avenue.
“Know the feeling, man,” I remark as I gather her strands again in a tighter fist and tug a little harder.
She trembles, lets out a slight squeak, then covers her mouth with her hand.
He glances in the mirror, apologetic. “Sorry, doll. That was a tight turn.”
“It’s all good,” she says, a little chirpier than the situation calls for.
“Is it, Bryn?” I ask, my voice going darker, raspier. “All good?”
“It definitely is.”
The guy keeps going, eager to talk, it seems. “So, what did you two do tonight? A little dinner? See a show?”
I shake my head as I lower my hand from Bryn’s hair and run it along her leg, teasing at the hem of her skirt. “I didn’t eat yet. But I want to. I’m hungry.”
Bryn jerks her face to the window, closing her eyes, her hand clamped over her mouth.
“Awesome. Let me know if you want me to stop by a Chinese joint. If you’ve never tried Blossom’s Magic Noodle House, give it a whirl. The cold sesame noodles are the best thing ever.”
My fingers inch under the hem of Bryn’s skirt. “Thanks, man. I’ll keep it in mind. First, though, I have a tasty dish waiting for me on Perry Street.”
With a click of the blinker, the driver turns onto Perry Street, pulls to the curb, and shoots us a warm grin. “Thanks for riding with me. Be sure to leave a five-star review if you liked my wheels.”
“We will,” Bryn says, and in seconds, we’re at the door of her building, heading up the first flight of stairs, then the second. When we reach her place on the third floor, she rustles in her purse for her keys.
As she hunts, I move behind her, crowding her, caging her in, my chest pressed against her back.
“Ohhh,” she murmurs as I sweep her hair off her neck then grab her wrists, pinning them in place. I bring my nose to her neck, run it across her skin, breathe her in. She smells like peaches.
“Is this how you’d like to be fucked? Pressed to the wall?”
“Maybe not in the hallway,” she says in a sexy tone.
I drop one of her wrists and grab her hip. She rubs her ass against my hard-on, and I murmur, “Or up against the door the second it closes? Your legs wrapped around my waist, wearing nothing but your boots?”
She shudders. “That sounds better than pizza. But are there other options I should consider too?”
I’m beginning to understand Bryn better. She likes to tease with her words and to take with her body.
Works for me.
But I also have a hunch she likes to be told what to do. That even if she talks back, she wants to be put on her knees.
“Open that door, and we’ll find out,” I command.
“I was trying to, but you stopped me.”
I growl, grab her ass hard, and bring my mouth to her ear, the sweet scent of her skin going to my head. “I won’t stop you now.”
She unlocks the door, opens it, and lets me in.
When she flicks on the light, the polite thing might be to look around, say a few words about her place.
I don’t do that.
The second she tosses her purse and keys on the entryway table, I grab her hand, spin her around, and walk her to the wall a few feet away, backing her into the corner. I clasp her face and drop my lips to hers.
She lets out the sexiest murmur as our lips touch. A greedy sigh that’s both an invitation and a prelude of how this is going to be. Of how she needs it.
Wants it.
I dust my lips over her mouth.
Technically, it’s a soft kiss.
But what it truly is, is a reminder. That I’ve got this. That I can handle her pleasure. That I can set the pace.
I set it with my hands, cupping her cheeks.
With my body, aligned to hers.
And then with my hips, as I push my pelvis