Page 58 of The Thing About My Rival

“It’s a sports bra,” I say breathily. “Not something sexy and lacy.”

“I don’t care about your underwear, Wilcox. I care about what’s underneath.”

This man desires me. Wants me. This hotter-than-all-hell man who was among the best soccer players in the world wants me. Right here on my aunt and uncle’s bar.

And I want him, no,needhim. Like a wilting flower desperate for water. Like a fading flame desperate for oxygen to stay alight. To hell with the consequences of the awkwardness at work—frankly, it can’t get any more awkward anyway.

Maybe if we finally do this, the tension between us might ease and things will actually be better.

Yes, I’m letting him push up my sports bra and cup my bare breast in his large, strong, groan-inducing hand, purely for the benefit of workplace relations.

He thumbs my nipple, and I sink into a pool of wanton desire, arching into him.

Then his lips are off my neck, his head dipping below the edge of my pushed-up shirt and, oh dear God, his mouth is on my waist.

“Your skin is so soft,” he murmurs against me as histongue trails up my side and replaces his thumb on my nipple.

“Holy shit.” I grip the edge of the bar and fall forward over his face.

His warm, wet mouth is the most thrilling thing that has ever touched my body. I can just about feel myself dripping into my underwear.

His hand finds my inner thigh and, with a thrilling almost-tickling sensation, moves all the way up to my throbbing center.

When he reaches his goal and strokes a line up and over my core to my clit, the world behind my eyes turns into a pile of floaty pleasure clouds.

“Christ, I want you, Hugo.” And I’ve never meant anything more.

He lifts his face from under my shirt and straightens. My fingers gravitate to his sexily ruffled hair and dig in deep. He takes his hand from my heat and pulls me to the very edge of the bar, where he positions himself perfectly between my legs. And presses against me.

We both sigh at the intimate contact, and his mouth is on mine again—slightly slower now, his lips and tongue moving in time to the grinding of his hips as he circles the glorious hardness in his pants against me.

I shove his jacket off his shoulders and onto the floor, then claw at the edge of his shirt, lifting it up until he takes over and yanks it over his head.

And there, in all his topless glory, is Hugo freaking Powers.

I rake my fingers from his forearms up his biceps, over his muscular shoulders, across his firm wide pecs, and downward, tracing the outline of his abs. He could be amodel for an anatomy class—everything perfectly formed, everything in exactly the right place.

He drops his lips to mine again and thrusts his rock-hard erection against me. I press back into him as his hands slide up over my hips, around to my back, and find the waistband of my leggings.

He makes like he’s going to push his hands inside, but, instead, yanks them down. It’s a swift, determined action. An in-charge tug that sends a shiver of desire right through me.

“Lift up,” he says into my mouth.

I raise one butt cheek.

He eases down my leggings, thong with them, on one side.

Then the other butt cheek.

Farther down they go.

The chilly wood of the bar quickly warms against my bare ass.

Hugo lets go of my clothes and steps back, trailing his hands all the way down my legs to my feet, where he yanks off one of my sneakers, then the other, and tosses them over his shoulders with a wide, wicked grin that’s enough to make even the nunniest of nuns throw her underwear at him.

Then he’s back, grabbing either side of my leggings and thong and peeling them lower.

“This is going to be fucking amazing, Wilcox.” His eyes eat up every inch of my flesh as it comes into view. “Fucking amazing.”

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