The What If Guy - Lauren Blakely Page 0,22

out as her hand slides down her belly on a fast track to between her legs.

Some primal, possessive part of me wants to say, No, I control your pleasure.

But the smarter, more mature part of me understands that the woman knows her own body, her own mind, and if she needs her fingers between her legs, then she damn well ought to diddle herself.

I cover her body, my chest to her back. With my hand in her hair, I turn her face, tugging her lips close to mine. “Play with yourself, Bryn,” I say against her mouth, and we kiss until I moan and add, “Play with yourself till you come again.”

“I’m close, so close,” she groans, and I can feel her wrist moving, her forearm a fast blur.

Holy shit.

Bryn—I don’t even know her last name—is the sexiest, most sensual woman I’ve ever met. I’ve never known a woman so in charge of her own pleasure even when she’s not in charge of it.

I slide my hands up her stomach, cupping her fantastic breasts, kneading them. Letting her know they feel fucking fantastic. “I love your tits,” I whisper.

“Me too,” she says in a breathy pant.

“Would love to bite them. Would love to fuck them,” I whisper as I knead them harder, testing her, pushing her with a squeeze, a pinch. “Would love to come between your gorgeous fucking tits.”

“Oh, God, yes.”

My head goes hazy, and lust ricochets through my body as I bring my teeth to her neck. Soon she’s panting and moaning with every nip and every damn thrust. Her cries escalate, growing louder, hungrier, until she breaks.

It’s a long, loud, glorious O as she trembles, tensing all over, then shaking as she whispers, “Oh my God.”

Her body clenches around my cock, sending all my senses into overdrive. The switch in me flips, and I come so damn hard with a long grunt. “Fuuuuck.”

Then I’m slumped over her, breathing out like I’ve run a thousand races.

“That was . . .” I can’t finish. My brain is a fried egg.

“Yes. It was . . .”

“So good,” I say, managing something.

“Better than good,” she says. “Necessary.”

I dust my lips against her hair, kissing the strands. “Necessary,” I echo. “And I think I’ll need it again.”

“Same.”

I ease out of her, remove the condom, then scoop her into my arms. She’s still all gorgeously drugged out. “Take a shower with me,” I say.

She gives a soft yes, and the look in her eyes also says that’s exactly where she wants to be.

8

Logan

In the bathroom, I toss the condom, turn on the shower in the claw-foot tub, and adjust the temperature.

She steps under first, and I survey the tiny room out of curiosity. I want to know her, and bathrooms can offer a sneak peek at who someone really is.

The space is bursting with personality, the vanity lined with cruelty-free lotions in tropical scents, the pristine walls covered with framed illustrations of fifties housewives saying things like Some people are like clouds. When they disappear, it’s a brighter day, or a cheery blonde receptionist clutching an old-fashioned phone with a cartoon bubble over her head reading My business is my business. So, unless you’re a thong, don’t be up my ass.

I point my thumb at that one. “Very clever.”

“It was either that or a cheesy corporate image of a mountain with a saying like Determination,” she remarks as she tests the spray of water.

“I’m glad you don’t have that in the bathroom.”

“Or anywhere, for that matter.”

“Indeed,” I say as I join her under the water, yanking the curtain closed. We’re in a cocoon of steam and heat.

There, I savor this moment. The blissful after-sex moment that comes from knowing you both wanted it the same way, you both liked it the same way.

Something I haven’t experienced in a damn long time.

Over the years, my ex-wife and I became less compatible in the bedroom, just as we did in life. We became less connected. Maybe because in one decade we’d never communicated as explicitly as Bryn and I have in just one night.

Or maybe because we never truly wanted the same things, the same way.

That’s a new kind of pleasure.

The before, the during, and the after.

It ignites something deeper than desire. Something like a wish.

A wish for more.

A wish, too, to understand Bryn.

To talk to her. To peel back some of the layers I saw tonight. I grab the body wash, squirt some into my hands, and let them roam over her skin. She