The Boy Toy - Nicola Marsh Page 0,27

lag, she knew better. Tossing and turning while remembering a scorching one-night stand that had the potential to turn into more wasn’t conducive to good sleep. So when the object of her disrupted slumber knocked on her office door, what was a girl to do other than invite him back to her place, again?

They barely made it into her apartment before he had her up against the wall, his deliciously hard body pressing against hers, setting alight every nerve ending, making her skin hypersensitive. She wanted to claw off her clothes, and his, her hands plucking ineffectually at his cotton T-shirt because she didn’t know where to grab first.

“Sexy as fuck,” he murmured against her neck, alternating between gentle bites and sensual sweeps of his tongue, his use of the f-bomb ratcheting up her desire, if that was possible.

She’d never done the dirty-talk thing, and there was something raw and natural about him that called to her.

She loved living in LA, but most of the guys she’d dated had been well-groomed, well-spoken, and hooked on the wellness regimen that the beautiful people favored. Many of them had been fake, their obsession with manscaping and fast cars an instant turnoff.

Rory was so far removed from those guys, she knew that was part of the attraction. The other parts . . . She slid her hand between their bodies to cup his groin, letting out a little squeal when he bit down on her trapezius particularly hard.

“Sorry,” he said, not sounding sorry at all, and she deliberately squeezed him, earning a loud groan.

“Bedroom?”

“Here’s fine.” She unzipped him and slid her hand inside, emboldened, eager.

He returned the favor, unzipping her pants and pushing them down along with her panties, his hands impatient, his fingers plucking at elastic, until she kicked them away and his hands cupped her ass, lifting her slightly.

She liked that he was a man of few words, and she could tell what he wanted by touch, so she slid her hand inside his jocks, wrapped her hand around velvet hardness, and eased him out.

“Condom. Wallet. Back pocket,” he said, and she didn’t waste any time in getting him sheathed.

She’d barely rolled the latex all the way to the base of his penis when he lifted her higher, leaving her no option but to wrap her legs around his waist.

Her breath hitched as he nudged her entrance, teasing, waiting, until she locked eyes with him, and what he saw must’ve driven him to slide in to the hilt.

Heat streaked through her at the first thrust, and the next, and the next. Over and over, the exquisite pleasure of having him fill her.

His lips sought hers, his kisses sensual and soul drugging as he picked up the tempo, angling his hips so each thrust grazed her clit.

Considering her raunchy memories of their one night together, it didn’t take long for her to cling to him, whispering “more” as a monumental orgasm clawed at her.

With another thrust, she came so hard she bit into his shoulder, and he followed a second later on a low, guttural groan that raised the hairs on the back of her neck.

She’d never had this kind of sex before, had never been so horny for a guy, and as he gently lowered her and her feet touched the ground, she wondered about the prudence of turning a one-night stand into two . . . but with him still inside her and the aftershocks of her pulsating muscles setting up a delicious heat between them, she didn’t particularly care.

* * *

* * *

Rory didn’t do this.

He didn’t linger after sex with a woman he barely knew, and he certainly didn’t stand in her kitchen chopping onions for scrambled eggs. Yet there he was, in Samira’s apartment, doing exactly that. It should’ve given him hives. Instead, the repetitive soothing action of the sharp knife dicing through the layers calmed him.

It helped that she didn’t mind talking enough for the both of them.

“Once those onions are done, dice the tomato next, then the cilantro, and you’re ready to learn the art of creating the best Punjabi scrambled eggs you’ve ever tasted.”

She brought her fingertips to her lips and kissed them with a flourish, making him laugh. She had this way about her, an easygoing lack of self-consciousness that he admired yet envied.

What would it be like to feel that comfortable in your own skin? To appear completely at ease standing in a kitchen wearing a long T-shirt over knickers while beating