Page 157 of The Oscar Escape
And he’d never wanted her more.
Scratch that. He always wanted her.
He drank in her come-hither vibe. “You know I’m ready. Thanks to your hand in my lap, while I might add, we sat across the table from your aunt and uncle during dinner. This might be themost readyI’ve been in my entire life.”
Aria twisted a lock of chestnut-brown hair around her finger, playing the innocent. “A wife can’t rest her hand on herhusband’sthigh during a meal with our entire nanny love match crew and a few dozen islanders?”
“You know damned well that your hand wasn’t on my thigh,wife.”
“Oops!” she exclaimed, laying it on thick. “Whatever I was touching was so big and so hard. I must have made a mistake,husband.”
Christ on a bike! This woman would be the death of him.
“You’re a terrible tease, Mrs. Elliott. Now say it,” he growled.
She batted her lashes. “Normal.”
He moved toward her—a beast closing in on its prey. “Keep going.”
She continued her seductive strut. The dress swayed, dusting her bare thighs as if it were begging him to bunch up the material at her waist, bend her over, and take her hard and fast from behind.
She patted the plastic lobster in the pot on the stove and leaned against the wall. Her gaze dropped below his waistband. “Penis,” she articulated, her voice caressing each dirty syllable.
“Mm-hmm,” he hummed, unbuckling the top button on his jeans. “Say the last part.”
She strolled to the bed, fluffed her dress, and sat on the pale blue comforter. The old thing creaked its protest. It was a sound he knew well, and it only made him harder.
She gripped one of the iron rods on the headboard. Slowly, like she enjoyed torturing him—because, of course, she did. She wasMrs.Eat Worms—she slid her hand up and down the spindle, fondling the wrought iron.
On the brink of exploding, he adjusted his stance. “Say it, Aria.”
Mischief glittered in her eyes. “I forget the last part.”
“No, you didn’t.”
She scratched her chin with one hand and worked the rod with the other. “Normal penis . . .”
“Dammit, woman!”
He couldn’t take it. She won. He had to have her.
He bolted to the bed, grabbed her ass, and slid her body to the edge of the mattress. She giggled as he dropped to his knees.
He’d been doing quite a bit of that lately.
He made good on his desire to hike up the hem of her dress. It pooled around her midsection like a dark denim sea. He hooked her legs over his shoulders, reveling in her smooth skin.
“Boots?” she asked in a breathy whisper.
“I like the boots. They stay on.”
Had he developed a thing for her in those red boots and nothing else? Hell yes, he had.
He held the globes of her ass in his hands, then stilled when he saw what was beneath the dress. He frowned. “Where are the lobsters?” he asked, staring at the scrap of satin and lace—not her usual lobster panties. She’d picked up a dozen pairs, and he was there for it.
“I thought you might like these better,” she purred.
“Why?”
