Page 81 of Playing Pretend

I need it, too. I want to devour him, but I know how much that will hurt.

“One kiss,” I offer.

“When I want,” he bargains. “Where I want.”

The twist of my stomach warns me not to concede. But I can’t deny the flutter in my chest.

“Deal.” Nausea swirls in my gut. Preemptive regret and worry over what this will do to our friendship.

I’m making a mistake and I can’t stop myself.

More couples join us on the dance floor, five or six, all of them shimmying to the fast pace of the song while Rome and I remain stuck in our own slow rhythm.

His arm leaves my back, his hand sliding into his pocket.

I brace for the increase to my torment, my pussy muscles clenched, my teeth digging into my bottom lip. It’s light, the gentlest escalation, yet so much more powerful than the first time after hours of stimulation.

“I’ve got you,” Rome vows.

I don’t want him to have me.I don’t. And in the same breath I can concede it’s all I’ve ever wanted.

I want him to have me. To hold me. To continue consuming me. But he’s a lifelong bachelor. A man with no experience or interest in commitment. The two of us don’t compute in the capacity I yearn for.

We never will.

The device slides up another notch, level three taking hold with devastating effects.

I suck in a breath and release his hand, sliding my palms around his neck to cling tight while I nuzzle my nose against his throat.

“Good girl,” he whispers. “I love how you take what I give without complaint.”

“Would complaining help?”

“No, but if you beg me to make you come, I’d make sure you got there a lot quicker.”

There will benobegging.

All I have to do is endure an hour of his tantalizingly filthy mouth while his sex toy runs rings around my normally stale libido. Roughly fifteen to twenty songs. And far less once I demand a bathroom break.

“Are you going to beg?” he purrs.

“Never.”

His chuckle is a bare murmur of breath near my ear. “Then are you ready for level four?”

My already exhausted muscles tighten. It’s better when I don’t have notice. When anticipation doesn’t ramp me far higher than the vibrations demand. “Yes, get it over and done with.”

He delves into his pocket. Bumps my rapture up a grade.

Goddammit. I don’t know how I’m going to last.

My panties are drenched. My core aches. Every single nerve in my body is prepped and ready for a climax I fight to suppress.

“I can’t do this,” I whimper. “Not here. Not in front of everyone.”

“You’ve done it before.”

I shake my head, trying to deny the memory, but it floods me with an agonizingly pleasurable reaction.

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