Page 135 of The Trade

My fingers absent-mindedly thread through his thick head of hair. While he sucks and licks like his life depends on it, I resist the urge to grab those silky strands and yank his face even closer, burying that perfect tongue inside me.

“Please,” I beg through trembling lips.

He lifts his head from between my legs, replacing his mouth with one thick finger. I gasp as he pushes it slowly inside of me, filling me as the rough pads of his fingers tighten around my hip.

“Please what, baby?”

One fingertip curls against my front wall, and I nearly lose control. “Just fuck me,” I finally manage to squeak out.

His lips curve into a smug smile. “No.”

“No?” I demand, outraged even as I continue to grind against his hand.

“No.” He grins wider. “You’re gonna come on my fingers again. Then you’re gonna come on my tongue. And then maybe, if you’re lucky, I’ll let you come on my dick.”

A knot of pleasure tightens in my lower belly. “I ... hate ... you.”

A low, throaty chuckle escapes him, the vibrations against my thigh making my breath hitch. His thumb draws slow, deliberate circles over my clit, and with one last calculated stroke, I come undone.

“There you go, baby.” He continues to trace his fingers over my sensitive folds. “Such a good fucking girl.”

The following moments are a blur. West’s smug smile, his fingers slick with my arousal sliding into his mouth, my hasty attempt to gather my composure. When I finally find my footing, I tell him in a huff, “That doesn’t count.”

“Like hell it doesn’t.”

“It was going to be a mutual orgasm, and you sabotaged me! Cheaters never win, West.”

“So, I’m West now, huh?” he asks with a teasing smirk. “That’s not what you were moaning when I had my tongue—”

“Fine, then you win,” I cut him off, folding my arms over my chest. “Game’s over. I guess there’s no more orgasms for either of us this weekend.”

With a chuckle, he pulls me close, wrapping an arm around my shoulders, “And you call me dramatic.”

Pettiness fuels me to pull away. “Can you just get out of the bathroom so I can finish getting ready?”

“Sure, Jade.” He bumps me with his forearm and flips on the faucet to wash his hands. “If it helps even the score, I’ll let you suck me off after the game.”

“Theodore Westman-Cooke.” I gasp, swatting at his shoulder. “You’re an actual heathen.”

“Good thing I’ve already tricked you into falling in love with me.”

Before I can formulate a response, he cups my chin between two strong hands, leans in, and kisses me. It’s brief but intoxicating. Then he pulls back with a wet, sloppy smack of his lips, saunters out of the bathroom, and flops onto our king-sized bed.

“I still hate you,” I call out, cheeks tightening with a smile.

“And I still love you,” he lazily calls back.

It takes me nearly twenty minutes to comb through the rough tangles in my curls, scrub away the mascara streaks under my eyelids, and fix up my smudged lipstick. By the time I’m finished, we’re chasing the clock.

“Ready to go, love?” I ask as I slip on a pair of sneakers.

“Mhm, don’t forget your phone.” He nods toward the nightstand. “Uh, Garrett may have texted while you were in there.”

“Oh? Did you see what he wanted?”

“I, uh—I swear I didn’t intend to read it.” He gives me a sheepish look. “I heard the notification, picked up your phone, and just saw the message.”

I fight a grin. “Babe, it’s fine.”

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