Page 79 of Keep Him Like Secrets

Sure, there had been sex.

And it’d been hard and rough and delicious.

But somehow, that paled in comparison to everything else.

Which was in no way helping the argument I’d been trying to make about how I just wanted him sexually, not personally.

Then the bastard had to pull me against his chest, cover me with a blanket, and rub my scalp while I read.

I tried to ignore the heart-clenching sensation he was causing by getting sucked into the story I was reading.

But then the characters who hated each other had to go and decide they wanted to settle an argument the old-fashioned way. Naked.

And, yeah, it went ahead and reignited that need inside me.

Luckily, this time, I had Soren right under me.

When I woke him up, I hadn’t exactly expected him to follow the hero’s lead in the book, his hand gliding between my legs, teasing me through my panties until I was rocking and whimpering. Then sliding under to torment me some more.

“You’re not allowed to come yet,” he warned, warm breath in my ear as he got me closer and closer.

But the damn heroine on the page still had a while to go.

“No,” he warned again, pulling his hand away just when I felt that telltale tightening sensation.

“Hey, that’s not on the page,” I reminded him, taking slow, deep breaths to try to calm the ache deep inside.

“Neither is coming. I haven’t even gotten to taste you yet,” he reminded me, reaching to tap the page where the hero was going down on the heroine like a starving man.

The next thing I knew, the book was getting tossed onto the coffee table, then Soren was moving out from behind me to slide in front of me.

He made quick work of removing my panties, then he was down between my legs, working me in a frustratingly slow pace that had me fisting my hands in his hair and trying to rock against him to get more of what my body was screaming for.

I’d never hated a heroine more than I hated that one right then as Soren kept edging me with his tongue, lips, and fingers.

“Nope,” he said as my thighs shook, my back arched, and I was dangerously close to crushing him with my legs.

“Soren, please,” I begged. And I was never the kind to beg. I demanded. I took. I never pleaded for anything. Ever.

Except, it seemed, him.

“Hey, I didn’t write it,” he said, reaching for me with an annoyingly smug smile, pulling me up, so he could remove my shirt, then bra.

“Fuck the book,” I grumbled, hands going to his belt and whipping it off, then working on his button and zipper.

If I could just get my hands and mouth on him, there would be no more playing around.

“Saff…” he warned.

“You’re supposed to be naked too,” I reminded him.

“You’re right,” he agreed, but he moved away from me, leaving me alone on the couch, aching, needy, as he stepped just out of reach.

Then he started to undress himself, making an event of each button before finally shrugging off his shirt.

His pants went next. Then the boxer briefs that were doing nothing to hide just how turned on he was.

A needy whimper escaped me when he was finally standing before me with nothing to hide behind.

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