Good With His Hands (Good in Bed #1)- Lauren Blakely Page 0,69

is open to all of that,” he says in a sexy rumble, with a look that makes my panties go from dry to scandalously damp in seconds.

“Stop,” I warn again.

“Stop what?” he asks innocently.

I snort. “You know what, Mr. F-me Eyes? I think you just took my butt stuff virginity with that look.”

His brows lift. “What? No butt stuff? Ever?”

I shake my head. “Nope. Never sounded like fun.”

“Oh, wow . . . How did I not know this about you before now, Ms. Valentine?” He bites his bottom lip, shooting heavier fuck-me eye action my way before adding in a husky voice, “When you’re ready, I’m going to do things to your sweet ass that will blow your mind, sweetheart. I promise, you’re never going to be the same.”

My cheeks flush as I hum low in my throat. “I don’t know how I feel about that.”

“About ass-play?”

“No,” I say, setting my drawing pad and pencil aside before adding, “About how hot it makes me when you say those naughty things.”

“Love getting you hot.” He grins, clearly pleased with himself.

And me.

And us.

We really are pretty damned great at being us.

“Get over here,” he says as I rise from my chair.

“Already on my way,” I say, reaching for the bottom of my long-sleeved T-shirt and drawing it up and over my head.

Soon I’m naked too, and Jesse is proving that butt stuff isn’t nearly as weird as I’ve always thought it might be. In fact, butt stuff is pretty freaking amazing.

Afterward, I lie in his arms, catching my breath from one of the most intense orgasms of my life, wondering why I waited so long to try that. But also so glad I did because I wouldn’t want to do anything like that with anyone but Jesse.

“Told you you’d be a fan,” he says, so pleased with himself I can’t help but roll my eyes.

“Smug isn’t a good look for you.”

“Yeah, it is,” he says, making me giggle as he rolls on top of me and brings his face closer to mine. “See? I’m handsome as fuck when I’m smug. You’re already excited for round three, aren’t you?”

“We can’t,” I say, still laughing. “We’re supposed to be at your parents’ place in an hour.”

“So? We’ll be quick,” he says, kissing my neck.

“But we still have to pick up wine on the way,” I say, even as I arch into his lips, shivering while he drags his teeth along the sensitive skin at my throat.

“It’s fine. Lots of things still open. We’ve got plenty of time.”

We do not, in fact, have plenty of time. After Jesse proves how sexy he is when he’s smug—a feat he accomplishes by hooking my ankles over his shoulders and rearranging my insides in the most amazing ways—we both shower and get dressed in our Thanksgiving finery, but we’re running twenty minutes late.

“Never again,” I pant as we race down the stairs to catch one of the few trains running today. “Next time, we’re going to leave early!”

But we don’t.

A little more than a month later, I’m at his place for New Year’s Eve and we almost miss the ball drop at the swanky Hollywood party he was lucky enough to score an invite to.

We’re too busy christening his new hot tub and chasing each other through his still only partially furnished rental house, seeing how many rooms we can break in over one weekend.

Four, it turns out.

I’m still thinking about the up-against-the-wall sex in his dining room when we slip into the party, grabbing champagne moments before the countdown starts.

Back home, I count the days until his next visit while helping Gigi move from her place in Flatbush to an apartment two doors down from Sweetie Pies, the better to watch over her store-baby at all hours of the day and night.

“It’s not my baby,” Gigi huffs, shaking the snow off her coat before hanging it on the hook inside the door of her new place. “It’s my boyfriend. I’m probably going to marry it.”

I set the box full of kitchen supplies on the island with a laugh. “Stranger things have happened. Didn’t a woman marry her car on Long Island last year?”

“No, she ate her car, piece by piece. She married a replica of the Eiffel Tower she had erected in her backyard.”

I grimace. “Ew. That’s . . . disturbing.”

“Yeah, I’m not an Eiffel Tower fan. If I had to marry a replica of a famous building, I’d marry Big Ben in London.” She sighs as