Call Me Crazy (Bellamy Creek #3) - Melanie Harlow Page 0,25

I’m patient, intuitive, and very, very good with my tongue.”

Her face turned the color of brandied cherries, but she held my gaze.

“And with my lips, my hands, and my—”

“Okay, that’s enough,” she said, suddenly swinging her feet onto the floor. “It’s getting late, and I have to get up for church tomorrow.”

“Same.” I couldn’t resist smiling as I rose to my feet. It was hard not to feel like I’d won that round. “And a gentleman knows when to make his exit.”

She walked me to the door, took my coat from the closet, and handed it to me.

“Thanks for the drink,” I said, pulling it on. I enjoyed the way she watched my fingers work their way up the buttons.

“You’re welcome.” She pulled open the door, and a cold March wind blew in, causing her to shiver.

“You know, I could stay over,” I offered facetiously. “Keep you nice and warm all night long.”

“Nope,” she said, shoving me out onto her welcome mat. “Goodnight, Enzo.”

I turned around, bracing my hands on the top of the doorframe. “No kiss?”

She looked at my lips, and for a fraction of a second, I thought she might do it.

But then she stepped back and shut the door in my face.

Laughing, I turned around and walked to my car. It was tough to say what I liked more—when she dropped the gloves to be sweet and vulnerable with me, like when she’d told me about Tate, or when she put up her dukes and went for the uppercut. Both versions of her had their appeal.

But later that night, it was the feisty, pugnacious Bianca who appeared in my dreams, wearing nothing but a checkered apron, shrieking as I chased her around my house. When I caught her, she put up a pretty good fight, landing a right hook to my face, a solid jab to my gut, and a shockingly powerful cross to my chest that knocked the wind out of me. In fact, that one knocked me over backward, and she landed on top of me.

In one smooth motion, I flipped her onto her back, pinned those arms above her head, and looked into her electric blue eyes. Both of us were breathing hard as I—

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

I opened my eyes, confused, disoriented, hard as steel and mad as hell. My first instinct was to stop the noise, and I reached over, grabbed my phone, shut off my alarm, then angrily slammed the damn thing down on the mattress.

My next instinct was to jerk off, and I reached into my boxer briefs, sheathing my iron cock with my fist and yanking furiously. Exactly who or what I was angry with, I wasn’t sure. Was it Bianca for tempting me? Was it myself for being attracted to her? Was it the universe, for trapping me in this situation where I had to fake a marriage with a woman I was beginning to have real feelings for?

No, I insisted over and over again as I thrust into my palm, my stomach muscles clenching. No, no, no. No feelings. This thing with Bianca was all for show. I couldn’t fall for her. I didn’t even like her. She drove me crazy. Insane. Out of my mind. It was my dream getting to me, that was all. That dream, where I’d chased her around, her round little ass taunting me beneath the bow of her apron, her bare feet pounding as she ran up the stairs to get away from me, her laughter bouncing off the walls.

I loved that she fought me. God, she knew exactly how to get my adrenaline pumping. I wished I could spank her for it. And if I fucked her, it wouldn’t be sweet. It wouldn’t be gentle. I would pound into her with all the passion and fury and turmoil she made me feel. I would make her beg—for more, and then for mercy. And when I felt her body seize, when her nails dug into my back, when she arched and bucked and thrashed beneath me, I’d bury my cock deep inside her and come so hard she felt it like a punishment.

Next thing I knew, I was groaning and grunting aloud, my cock throbbing, my stomach and hand a hot dripping mess. Breathing hard, I lay there for a moment on my back, eyes closed, the image of Bianca in my head.

“Get out,” I told her, aggrieved that the best orgasm I’d had in months had been while fantasizing about