Page 60 of Mexico Can Choke On It
Three words is all it takes, and I fall into the fantasy I promised myself I wouldn’t entertain again.
Him. Me. This room.
I imagine that tux sliding off those broad shoulders. My hands on him. This ridiculous dress sliding down my hips as he kisses every inch of my body. The weight of his hard cock pressing against my stomach while his mouth devours whatever sounds he can draw from me.
My spine arching off the velvet chaise, body yearning beneath his. Those big hands pinning mine above my head—rough. Commanding.
I bet he whispers when he fucks.
Those perfect, proper lips, turning filthy in my ear. His control cracking as he thrusts—composure slipping—losing himself inside me.
I bet he’s a contradiction. Touches me like I’m breakable but fucks like he’s breaking apart. Like a man who’s been quiet for too long and he needs a place to be loud.
I hate that I want to be that place.
I’m unraveling under his touch. And he’s not even trying.
“What does this tattoo mean?” he asks, brushing behind my ear with a curious touch.
“That I’m a fool who makes bad decisions with cheap tequila.”
The real story is more pathetic.It’s the broken heart you never knew you gave me.
His hands fall away, but the echo of him pulses through me like a held breath.
“Okay, B, dress disaster averted. I’ll try not to collapse face-first into the soup course.”
He doesn’t move. Just stands there.
“You look beautiful, Pip.”
“Must be the soul-crushing corset. Nothing says glamor like strategically redistributed organs.”
“Not the dress. You.”
My stomach drops straight into my stilettos.
Stop blushing, slut-brain.
Don’t fall for his “rich boy manners” routine. Give him two minutes, and he’ll be telling our dog hostess she’s the belle of the fucking ball.
He doesn’t mean it the way you’re hoping.
I can’t go back to being fifteen and naive. My law books don’t have room forMrs. Bryce Sterlingdoodles. I’ve got to be careful, or I’ll waste another decade on this infatuation.
He holds out his arm for me. “We need to discuss dinner protocols.”
Nope. No more touching. I need serious distance. Like, force-field-level. Or one of those grabby claw things they give to senior citizens so they can reach high shelves.
Stick to the plan. No more reckless thoughts about this unattainable man.
Abort this lust.
Abort the whole damn man.
“No thanks, B.” I take a deliberate step back. “I’ve managed to avoid stabbing myself with a fork since preschool. My eating skills are pretty much the same—just with fewer crayons. Usually.”
I spin toward the banquet hall before my traitorous body can stage a full-blown mutiny against my better judgment.
