The What If Guy - Lauren Blakely Page 0,21

Tossing the condom on the couch, I strip off my shoes, shirt, jeans, and boxer briefs, and reach for her hand. She’s sex-drunk and slack-jawed, and her eyes spell one word only—bliss.

It’s beautiful and addictive, and I want to put that look on her face again.

“Hi,” she says, all breathy as she stares at my cock, hard and ready for her. “Your dick is better than pretty. It’s fucking hot.”

I grip my cock and slide a fist down it, shuddering both from the contact and from her dirty words. “Ask me now. Ask me how I want you.”

Her green eyes glimmer with desire. “How do you want me? How are you going to have your way with me?”

“Take that skirt off and get behind the couch.”

“Ohhh.” That’s all she says, but it sounds like a fantasy on her lips.

Thank God. Because it’s my fantasy too. It’s a simple one. It’s not like I want to bang her on a yoga ball or swing from the chandelier. I’m not aiming for a contortionist badge or a bizarre sex antics award. But I don’t want missionary either.

Her skirt falls to the floor. She wears only her white lace bra.

I stare at her, my eyes commanding. “The bra too.”

“You didn’t say to take it off.”

I point at her tits. “I want it off, Bryn. Take it off.”

Something—maybe nerves—flashes in her eyes, but then, with a determined set of her jaw, she unhooks her bra, letting it fall quietly to the floor.

A rumble works its way up my chest as my eyes feast on dusty-rose nipples I want in my mouth. Her breasts aren’t huge. They’re perky—I don’t know what cup size and I don’t care, because I just want to get my hands and lips on them.

For a flicker of a second, she looks nervous, swallowing roughly. Concern takes over, and I set desire aside as I step closer. “Are you okay, Bryn?”

“They’re fake,” she says, a little embarrassed.

“Your breasts?” I ask, because I didn’t expect that.

“Yes.” It comes out soft, slightly apologetic.

I’m not sure what to say—whether this admission is a good thing or a bad thing.

I trust my instincts and speak from the heart, asking the only question that truly matters. “Do you like them?”

“I do.”

I grin. “Then, so do I.”

“But they might feel different,” she says, worrying at her lip.

Ah, hell. I reach for the beauties, cupping them, and my cock thickens more, the evidence that all that matters is her. “They feel fantastic, and I’d like to get to know them a whole lot better.” I narrow my eyes. “Preferably while my dick is inside you. Does that work for you?”

And a soft, grateful smile spreads across her face. “Thank you.”

I let go and pat the back of the couch. “Then bend over, woman.”

She obeys instantly, presenting herself as I slide on the condom. I run a hand down her back, then notch the head of my cock between her legs. I groan, closing my eyes as I savor her.

Bryn bends gorgeously, fashioning her body into a luscious L, punctuating the move with a perfect little pop of her perfect little ass.

“This ass . . .” I grab those cheeks, squeezing them hard as I push in, sparks racing across my skin at the feel of her.

“Yes,” she groans, her fingers curling tighter around the couch.

She grips me so nice and tight as I fill her, stopping when I’m all the way in. I close my eyes and just revel in the lushness of her body.

In the heat.

In the wetness.

She moans.

I groan.

And I know this is going to be electric.

I start to move, thrusting inside her, stroking. Pleasure roars through me, igniting my skin as I set a pace then keep it.

But a woman like Bryn does not come again from pace alone. I slide a hand up her spine, into her hair. “You liked what I did to you in the car?”

“Did I?” she asks coyly.

“I don’t know, Bryn. You tell me,” I command, stroking out so I’m barely in her. Just the tip now, making her want it.

“I did, Logan. I did,” she says, begging for more.

I slam into her, and she moans a deliciously long ohhh.

“Tell me to do it again, and I will,” I tease as I grip her hips, pumping into her.

“Pull my hair,” she cries out.

“I thought you’d never ask.” I wrap my fingers around those chestnut strands, tightening them in my fist. I tug hard, jerking her head back.

“Oh God,” she cries