Player - A Deadliest Lies Novel - Michele Mannon Page 0,10
sashay forward. “But do I? Tempt you?”
“You want the truth?” he murmurs, his tone thick and full of want.
I nod.
“I’d like nothing better than to take you to bed and fuck you until you can’t walk straight. First slow. Then hard. You on your belly, you riding my cock.”
I feel my cheeks heat. His filthy, naughty words.
His eyes glimmer with need. “You’re something else, you know that?” Leaning in, he places a gentle kiss on my lips. “And when the whiskey’s worn off and a brand-new day is on the horizon, you’re gonna remember what a devil I am.”
I gasp at his warning, but he’s already charging forward. He grasps me by the arms and tugs me into him. My breasts push against his chest. Yeah, there’s no denying he’s all muscle.
He places his finger on my chin and angles my head to the side. It’s a move you read about in romance novels. The alpha male taking charge of his woman.
Yet the angle is . . . awkward. Uncomfortable, even.
“Bring me those naughty lips,” he murmurs.
“Let me move and I will,” I murmur back.
“Nah, I got you were I want you.” He brings his lip to my ear and whispers. “You’re never going to forget this night, storeen.”
I jerk within his hold when I feel his coarse beard on my neck. Back and forth, back and forth, the friction he’s creating reminding me of the time I slid down the carpeted stairs and got a nasty case of rug burn.
“Kiss me,” I choke out, needing the rubbing to stop.
He listens, brushing lips over the blossoming neck-burn before going in for a suckle. My neck has always been sensitive, the cords on the side a total erogenous zone. But he latches on with his mouth like he’s attempting to suck a hole to China.
“Feel good?” he says, his lips making a loud pop as he withdraws from my neck.
“Um . . .”
“You going to play innocent now?” Before I can reply, he turns my head forward and swoops down for a kiss. Except he purses his lips before pushing them into mine, offering me a series of kisses you’d place on a toddler’s cheek. And the noises he makes sound like he’s calling a cat.
My gaze slips downward to the full box of condoms at our feet. Jesus. Is he a man with a lot to say, who talks the talk but has never walked the walk?
He wiggles his head from side to side. Terrific. Mouth-burn to match the neck-burn.
I want to tell him to stop, but I’m terrified that if I open my mouth, I’ll get a mouthful of scruff.
“Like that?” he asks, finally coming up for air.
I step back and break free from his grasp. “Who taught you how to kiss?”
He gives me that lost-boy look.
Yet this time . . . is he for real? Is he really this barbaric? Has he been waiting to be intimate?
“You don’t like how I kiss.”
How does he not know? This is beyond awkward. You’d think for a CIA agent, he’d be more adept. That what has to be an endless line of CIA bunnies looking to be fucked by a hero would have taught him a thing or two.
Without warning, he swoops forward and hauls me off my feet. “You should know I like a challenge,” I hear him say over my loud gasp. He lowers us to the floor, and, with expert hands, has my pants down and is tugging them off before I can decide if I want to continue or not.
I catch his hiss, my eyes going wide.
“Aren’t you full of surprises? Dressed all proper in a blouse and slacks, yet look at you, wearing silky, red panties that make a bloke want to tear them off with his teeth.”
Teeth . . . crap . . . no teeth, or mouth, or beard.
I grab hold of his hand and tug him down to lie over me. Immediately, I go for gold, slipping my hand inside his pants to grasp hold of his thick, hot erection.
I stroke him hard, sliding up and sliding down.
“Playing like that, are we?” He presses three fingers against my crotch and rubs. Back and forth. Back and forth. Like a man trying to scrub a scuff mark off his shoe.
Lord help him because he’s a barbarian. I place my hand over his and guide him to me. “Gentle. Like this.” I move his hand in a light, less aggressive circular motion, rewarding myself by