Page 79 of Strictly Pretend

“I don’t care about that,” I whisper to him. “I just want you to be honest with me.”

He swallows, his throat undulating. I feel the weirdest urge to kiss him there. “I find talking difficult.”

“No kidding.”

A smile ghosts his lips. I reach out to trace it with my fingertips. He exhales slowly, the warmth of his breath soft against my skin.

“If you’re looking for honesty, I want you,” he tells me, and the thickness of his voice sends another shot of heat between my thighs. “Like I’ve wanted nothing else in my life.”

From the way he’s staring at me, I can feel the truth of his words.

“I want you too.”

Before I can say anything else, his mouth descends upon mine. There’s nothing gentle about it. We’re both way too pent up for that. I practically climb him like a tree as his lips plunder mine, his hands cupping my ass as I wrap my thighs around his waist.

I’m barely wearing anything. Just a string bikini and a thin cover up that has already ridden up around my waist. I feel the buckle of his belt against my stomach, the roughness of his wool pants against my inner thighs.

And I can feel him. Right there. He’s so hard and I’m so achy, and it’s like nature takes over any logical thought as I roll my hips against him, my fingers tangling in his hair.

When we finally pull apart – mostly because my lungs are on fire and in need of a desperate shot of oxygen – we’re both breathless. There’s a fire behind his eyes that matches the heat inside me.

“I came back to talk to you,” he says. Not that he’s rushing to say much. He’s too busy tracing the line of my bikini bottoms, his fingers playing with the strings.

“We can talk after,” I tell him breathlessly.

“After what?” There’s that little smile again. I want to see it more. I want to hear him laugh. I want to be the one to make him do it.

I catch his gaze. There’s so much emotion there it makes my chest contract. This man likes me. He’s seen me at my worst and he likes me.

And I like him too. So much. And I need him more than I’ve needed anything in my life.

“After everything,” I tell him. Because that’s what I want.

Everything he has to give. And maybe more.

CHAPTER

TWENTY-ONE

EMMA

He lowers me to the floor as I slide my hands down his shirt, slowly unfastening each button. His jaw is tight as he watches my progress, his gaze dark. When his shirt is finally gaping open I allow myself to stare unashamedly at him, taking in the smooth muscles of his chest, the ripples of his stomach, that line of hair that runs to his pants, disappearing behind his waistband.

“Can I take your top off?” he asks. He sounds a little like somebody’s strangling him, even though my hands are way too busy tracing the lines of his pectoral muscles.

I nod and hold my hands up as he pulls the cover up over my head, discarding it on the floor. His shirt quickly follows, and we’re both standing there, half exposed.

His eyes drink me in.

“When I saw you in this bikini earlier I nearly exploded in my pants.” His voice is husky.

I smile. “That would have made a super uncomfortable bachelor party.”

“I shouldn’t have gone,” he says. “I should have dragged you back here and thrown you on the bed.”

My lips part. “And then what would you have done?”

He leans forward to trace the outline of my breasts. Then his fingers slide to my back, the tips brushing my skin as he unknots my bikini.

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