Sexual tension arcs between us, sizzles in the air like a live current, as I say, “Just so you know, my sex life is my business, not my brother’s. If I wanted to sleep with you, or bend over so you could bury yourself inside me, the choice would be mine to make.”
His throat works as he swallows. “Don’t you think I have a say in it, too?”
“Yes, of course. I’m just saying. I’m a grown woman, Roman, or haven’t you noticed?” I stretch out a little more and his eyes darken.
“I’ve noticed.”
“What I do with my body is up to me.” I sink down onto the edge of my unmade bed, and by small degrees I inch my knees open. A welcome invitation he’s fully aware of judging by the clenching of his muscles. “The fact is you want me to hate you, and I do, and that creates a huge problem.”
“Yeah, huge,” he mumbles, and I resist the urge to see if he’s currently sporting anything huge.
“Pretending to like each other, or even touch each other in public, will be a hard task.”
“Yeah, hard,” he says, and I bite my bottom lip as I fake a repulsed shiver.
“I’m just thinking about the difficulties we’re going to face.”
“Oh, is that what you’re thinking about?”
“I can’t even imagine how much I’d hate it if you touched me. If you put your hand here,” I say, and lightly run my finger up my inner thigh, “it would be horrible. The thoughts of you using your tongue.” I crinkle up my face. “That would be worse, I’m sure.”
“Peyton,” he says, his nostrils flaring, his control fraying around the edges. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” I bite back a smile as his rough voice caresses my body, the air in the room vibrating with the tension arcing between us. He stands before me, his chest rising and falling rapidly, as he battles an internal war, one I intend to win. My flesh tightens as I lightly stroke myself, a light feathery caress that stirs the restless desire in me.
“Just don’t.”
“Don’t what?” I ask again. “Don’t imagine how awful it would be to have your hands on me, your mouth between my legs, devouring me, you mean?”
“Fuck.” His voice is deep, tight, revealing the lust he’s trying to keep in check.
“Right, and fucking.” I roll my eyes as my heartbeat speeds up. “My God, don’t even get me started on imagining how much I’d hate that.”
He stares at me, his pupils dilating, each breath harsher than the one before. “Peyton,” he says again.
“Yes?”
“Maybe...” He begins and stops. He scrubs his chin, agony all over his face.
“Go on...” I encourage, and his gaze drops, watches my fingers dip under the fabric of my shorts. A little whimper catches in my throat as I widen my legs even more to tease him. Tempt him.
As I take in the strength and power of the man before me, a tortured sound rumbles from the depths of his throat and his laser focus centers on the hot spot between my legs. “Maybe you don’t have to imagine it?”
Yes!
“Excuse me?” I say as I study the bead of water dripping down his chest, disappearing into his towel. My throat dries. My God, the man is perfect, and judging by the bulge in that towel, he wants me every bit as much as I want him, and I damn well plan to do my best to make it happen.
Like an animal free of its tether—untamed and feral—he shoves my door open. It hits the wall with a thud as he steps into my room, and pleasure gathers in a knot deep between my thighs as his presence overwhelms the space, making me feel small and delicate beneath his glare. But his size doesn’t intimidate me. No, it actually empowers me, makes me a little more brazen.
I lift my chin, unafraid. “What exactly are you suggesting?” I ask, my voice laced with need. As he stares at me, another thought hits. What if he starts something, only to laugh and walk away? Do I have it in me to survive his rejection twice?
“Why don’t we see just how much you’re going to hate me touching you.” He cocks his head. “I told you I was committed to this charade, and it’s clear we’re going to have to know what we’re dealing with if we want to pull off a fake marriage.”
“An experiment then. Hmm, I think—” My words fall off when he closes the distance between us, pulls me to my feet and grabs a fistful of my hair.
Heat courses through me as he tugs, none too gently. I breathe in his freshly showered skin as his head dips, his lips close to mine. His gaze moves over my face, and his rapid-fire breathing washes over my flesh as his lips twist.
“Do you hate this?” he asks.
“Yes, I hate it,” I say, my voice deep and raspy from arousal.
Kiss me, already.
His big hands grip my sides and slide upward, his touch like fire to my skin. He stretches out his thumbs and brushes them over my nipples, effectively shutting down my brain. I moan and his resulting grin arouses me even more.
“Do you hate this, Peyton?” he asks, his voice a bit shaky. Maybe he’s not as in control as he seems. Do I, Peyton Harrison, his best friend’s kid sister, have the ability to rattle his composure and lance his self-control?
Let’s see if I do.
“Yes, I hate it,” I say, and arch into him.
“I can tell.” His thumbs tease my tight buds, his touch flowing through me, teasing the needy spot between my legs. One hand slides up my leg and he grips my hip, his touch taunting the cleft between my thighs. His fingers bite into my skin, a rough touch that feels far more sensual than a gentle one.
“How about this?” he asks, and plants his mouth on mine. His kiss is hard, deeply brutal and bruising. Everything about it sends a sharp spike of need through me. I moan into his mouth and my hands slip around his big body, taking pleasure in the heat of his skin. His tongue plunders, tasting the depths of my mouth as he rubs himself against my stomach. My God, I love what I do to him.
He tears his mouth from mine and cups my breast. “What about this, Peyton?” he asks as he weighs my aching breast in his hand. “Do you hate this?” My voice disappears on me, so I moan instead. He cups my other breast and kneads me in his palms. “Moan for me. Show me how much you hate it.”
My head falls back and I moan louder. It spurs him on. He dips a hand into my shorts, and with the rough pad of his finger, he circles my clit. “I bet you hate this, too.” I gasp as he strokes me, his finger slick and wet from my arousal as it thrums against my clit. “What about here, Peyton?” He inches a finger inside me, to the second knuckle, and goes completely still when my sex clenches around him. “I bet you’d hate it more if I tossed you onto that bed and put my cock in here instead of my finger.”