Page 33 of Yours, Unexpectedly

He leans closer, our noses are almost brushing. Right before his lips touch mine, he turns his head, looking down at the discarded plate next to us. Slowly, so fucking slowly, he drags his finger through some of the left over whipped cream before bringing it up to my lips.

“Open your mouth,” he demands.

I gasp, unintentionally following his directions. He sees the opening and places his finger on my tongue.

“Suck it off like the good girl I know you are, Baby Bardot. But don’t swallow.” Hoooo-ly shit.

I do what the man says.

“You liked being a little brat and taunting me with that damn whipped cream finger earlier. I needed to feel it for myself.” He taps my chin. “Open up and let me see.” My mouth opens and I stick my tongue out, showing him the whipped cream as it dissolves on my tongue. His eyes zero in and I’m sure I paint quite the picture right now, my chest rising with each rapid breath.

Finally, he looks up at me. “Can I taste?” There is something so hot about him stopping to get consent in this moment, and all I can do is dip my chin in an affirmative.

With molten eyes and a devilish grin, he leans down and licks the whipped cream off my tongue. I think I might come and he hasn’t even really touched me yet. I’d like to say I’m regretting this whole friends with benefits thing, but I’m absolutely, definitely not.

A moan escapes my lips, eyes rolling back, as my hips move forward seeking friction only he can give. When I finally connect with his erection, my eyes spring open. He’s already rock hard. Do I do that to him?

“Yes, you do.” Oops, guess I asked that out loud. I unashamedly move my hips and now it’s his turn to groan.

“Anders, I need more,” I plead.

He reaches back down to the hem of my sweatshirt. “May I?” he asks.

I lift my arms straight up so he can pull the bulky item over my head. I’m left in a workout crop top and leggings. His hand comes up to my collarbone, the touch searing my bare skin as he gently eases me back until I’m lying on the table. Those searching hands skim down my body until they get to the waistband of my leggings.

“As hot as these are, I need them off. Is that beneficial for you?” His left eyebrow quirks with this question and even with how turned on I am, I can’t help but roll my eyes at him, which just makes both eyebrows raise as he pulls his hands from my waist. “Careful, Bex. Friends who roll their eyes don’t get benefits.”

He’s teasing, so I tease right back. Fixing my face into a serious expression, I grab his hands and place them back on my waist with a firm, “Yes, sir.”

“Fuck. Don’t move,” he says, walking backwards toward the kitchen. His, ahem, package is straining against the front of his sweatpants and I lick my lips in anticipation. He’s only gone for a second before he reappears with the entire whipped cream can in his hands.

“What’s that for?!” I ask, even though I’m pretty sure I know the answer.

“I’m still hungry,” is his only reply.

So am I.

When he’s back in front of me, he pauses so his eyes can trace me from head to toe, heating every inch they pass. Taking a deep breath, he tips his head back, closing his eyes. I feel the desire vibrating off his body. After a moment, he shakes his head, effectively shaking off whatever thoughts were running through it. Before I can ask what’s going on, his hands are back at my waist, peeling down my leggings. When he gets to my lacey hot pink thong, he lets out another curse, speeding up the removal of both the leggings and the thong.

And now I’m laying in front of Anders Olsson half-naked, something I’ve dreamed of doing for over six years.

“So pretty,” he whispers. And the way he’s looking almost worshipful at me has my legs closing self-consciously. Big hands go to my knees, holding me. Exposing me. “No, no. You keep these legs open for me, baby.”

“Who the fuck are you?” I ask, knowing I should keep this question in my head, but seriously—it’s like a woman wrote this man. He’s stepped off the pages of my smuttiest romance novels.

“Your teenage fantasy,” he quips and that actually makes me laugh out loud, bringing some much needed levity to the situation.

“You have no idea how accurate that is.”

“Well then, let’s make that fantasy come to life, shall we?”

And he wastes no time in doing just that. His knees hit the floor and he grabs the whipped cream can, shaking it so he can draw one line across my lower stomach and one up each thigh. His hot, wet mouth follows the path, licking off every last drop of the sugary cream. The rough texture of his tongue is driving me wild, and by the time he’s finished, my hands have tangled in his hair and I’m squirming on the table.

I have never, I mean never, felt a desire like this before. My body feels flushed and if he doesn’t put his mouth where I really want it, I might do something stupid like push him to the ground and straddle his face.

Digging my nails into his scalp, I tug his head trying to get it in between my legs.

The motherfucker has the audacity to laugh at me. “Patience, Baby Bardot.”

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