by Lisa Wells
“Ummmm. According to Fox News, the correct answer is three hundred thirty-six hours. About twenty-five percent of a year.”
“Then I got it right? I said less than a year.”
She shook a finger at him. “That’s not how trivia works. Close enough doesn’t count. Lose the tie.”
He slowly undid the knot. “Later, when we go to my bedroom”—he loved the way her eyes were watching his every move with the tie—“let’s take this with us. It might come in handy with what I want to do to you.”
She exhaled a soft breath, and her cheeks glowed a rosy hue as she gave him a slight nod. Then she turned and picked up their wineglasses. “I’ll pour us more while you Google a trivia question.”
“I don’t need to Google a question.”
She hurried away and came back with their glasses filled above the classical fill line for wine. She enjoyed a long sip of hers. “What’s your question?”
He sat their glasses down. “What percentage of people like to talk dirty during sex?”
“Sounds like a piece of trivia you might have picked up from Cosmopolitan magazine. Are you a closet Cosmo quiz taker?”
“Answer the question.”
“Forty-four percent.” She stated her answer with the conviction of someone who didn’t get trivia wrong.
Which made it all the sweeter for him to say, “Wrong.” Ten thousand dirty words popped into his brain to say to her as soon as he got her naked.
“What’s the correct answer? And what is your source?”
“Fifty-eight percent. I don’t have to tell you my source. Take off an earring.”
Her mouth opened and closed and then opened again. “How about I leave it on and instead I’ll tell you if I like to talk dirty during sex?”
If he didn’t remove his pants soon, he would bust the zipper. “Do you?”
She ran a finger down his chest, stopping at his belt buckle. “That’s one of the many things I like during sex.”
He reached down and adjusted himself. Time to end this game. “Next question.” He wasn’t too proud to lose if it meant taking her to bed.
“Which college has self-reported over one-fifth of its graduating seniors are still virgins?” she asked.
Did someone really conduct a study on this? “Duke?”
“Harvard. Take off your jacket.”
He did. “How old am I?”
She blinked. “That’s not a trivia question.”
“Sure, it is.”
“I don’t know, like, fifty.”
He grimaced. “Thirty. And because you were so far off, take off two things.”
“Fine.” She bent over, giving him a prime view of her ass as she undid the straps and slid off both of her high heels. From her bent-over position, she glanced up at him. “My turn.” She didn’t straighten until he took his eyes off her ass.
He nodded. “Your turn.”
“What device was invented in the nineteenth century to prevent female hysteria?”
He didn’t take time to come up with an educated guess. The quicker he was wrong, the quicker he could get her naked. “Mascara.”
She rolled her eyes. “Weakest link for sure.”
The dig dug at his pride, but pride didn’t stand a chance against his lust. “And the answer is?”
“The vibrator. Take off two items.”
“I thought you’d never ask.” He removed his cufflinks. “In Ireland, it is believed if a woman eats this while thinking of a man, he will fall in love with her. What is it?”
She smirked like he’d asked her the answer to two plus two. “Easy. A four-leaf clover.”
Her smirk had been justified. “I’m impressed.”
“Why, thank you. How many times does the average person fall in love before getting married?” She leaned in slightly, her gaze sharp on his face. As if she were suddenly an FBI agent questioning a suspect.
Why did the question sound intentional instead of whimsical? “Three.”
Their gazes remained locked several seconds before she shook her head. “Wrong. Seven. Remove two items.”
“How many times have you been in love?” he asked as he removed his shirt and undershirt. She’d started this line of questions; a follow-up was appropriate.
She held up her left hand and started lowering one finger at a time. When all five fingers were down, she raised her right hand and lowered one finger. “Six.”
He wanted to ask her about every single one of them and why they didn’t work out. But that might sound like he wanted to be the next, and that’s not what he wanted. Was it? “What is the height of the tallest building in the world?” Keep it light and easy.
“Really? That’s the best you’ve got? You really must want me to remain fully clothed.”
Give him a break. He could barely remember his own name at this point. “Okay. What’s my middle name?”
She twisted her lips as if she knew she knew the answer but couldn’t quite recall the correct response. Then a look of relief lifted her lips. “Andrew.”
Damn. She was good. “Wrong. Donovan,” he lied. “Two items.”
She removed her remaining earring and then undid the single glorious button holding her dress together, but her hand did what the button had been doing.
“You don’t get to artificially hold it in place.”
She leisurely removed her hand, and the dress fell open like a curtain revealing what’s behind Let’s Make a Deal’s door number three.
He inhaled harshly, like a man who’d been suffocating and suddenly found air. Her body…fuck. Deal of the day.
She shimmied out of the dress. To the beat of his thudding heart, it fell to the floor.
“You’re staring,” she said, her voice sounding husky to his clogged ears.
He brought his gaze up, over her shimmery legs, lingering on the garter belt holding her hose by black snaps, the tiny thong panty, its matching black bra, and finally to Aggie’s face. “As would any man when presented with a fucking masterpiece.”
“You don’t think I’m…” She grimaced.
“What?” Surely, she wasn’t insecure. She had the kind of curves men drove over a cliff to see.
“Never mind. Thank you,” she said in a haughty tone. “Prepare to lose your pants.”
God, he loved her personality. Loved her spirit of adventure. Loved… “Yes, please, ask me a question.” Could you love something that would surely drive you crazy in the long run? Maybe even ruin you?
“What’s your name?” Amusement lifted her lips.
“Goner.”
She chuckled. “Remove the pants.”
“Thank you.” Like a fumbling virgin, he did. “What day of the week did I arrive into the world?”
She tapped her cheek with a single finger, narrowed her eyes, and appeared to be doing the calculation to figure it out. A century later, she said, “Saturday.”
Hell. Once he fucked her like crazy, he should take her to the casinos. Her luck, and it had to be luck because why would she know that, was scary. “Wrong. Sunday. Remove your bra.”
She did.
“Fuck. Those are the perfect amount of perfection.”
“Thank you. What day of the week did my mom drop me off at Meemaw’s?”
The question tortured his heart, made him want to reach out and hug her. Made him want to make sure she never felt abandoned again. Did she ask the question to remind herself to be leery of him? “Sunday.”
She exhaled a long breath as if fighting a demon. “Saturday. Remove your Ellen boxers.”
He kicked out of his shoes, his socks, and then his Ellen’s. His erection, standing proud and ready for action, sprung free. He scooped her up in his arms and took a step toward his bedroom.
“Wait,” she said.
“Why?”
“I have a condom in my dress pocket.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Aggie laid on her back in the middle of Max’s enormous bed and tried not to stare too openly at his massive erection. She bombed. As in, an utter fail. Was it possible to fall in love while playing a game of strip trivia? Asking for a friend.
Loving someone’s laugh and his cock are not the same as falling in love. This is just sex.
“I’m glad to see the size of your erection matches the size of your ego.” She sighed lustily. “It’s rare the two run parallel.”
He chuckled, the warm sound caressing her skin, sending tiny tingles down her spine. “I’m glad you’re glad.”
Through her peripheral vision, she watched him dig the condom out of her dress pocket.
“Do you make it a habit to carry a condom in your pocket?” He had the kind of voice that always caught a woman’s attention, but when layered with a tone of arousal, it became a wonderful sex toy. One far better than the preeminent of vibrators.
“A girl never knows when she’ll lose track of the whereabouts of her purse during an amorous moment.” If he couldn’t handle the truth, he couldn’t handle her.
“I see.” He tore the package open, gently tugged it out, and handed it to her. “I’ve been fantasizing longer than I care to admit about watching you roll a glow-in-the-dark, neon-pink condom down my length.”
“I’d love to do the honors.” She took it and sat up on the edge of the bed. He nudged her legs apart and moved between them. Up close, as if a magnifier stood between her eyes and him, his cock amplified. The sight burned a path of desire to the core of her own sex, which pulsated in expectancy. As she slowly positioned the condom on his tip where precum shone, her fingers grazed him.
He hissed, and she basked in the fact she affected his breathing as much as he affected her whole freaking body. “Hurry the hell up. I fucking want to fuck you right now.”
She paused. Was he among the 90 percent of men who found women who take sexual initiative sexy? God, she hoped so. “How exactly are you going to go about fucking me?”
His hands fisted at his sides. Anticipation evident in every taunt inch of his body.
“I will start by touching you here.” He unfisted a hand and ran a finger down her slit.
The contact of his warm finger against her wet center intensified the ache she’d been feeling all night. “Did you know the clitoris has eight thousand nerve endings?”
A sexy smile lit up his gray eyes. “I hope I’m engaging all of them right now.” He slowly dragged his finger in an upward motion.
She groaned. Nodded. “What else?”
“What else what?” he asked.
The demand in his voice left her craving something she’d never craved before: to relinquish control during sex. There were so many things in her life she had no control over, but sex had always been one she did. “What else are you going to do to show me who’s in charge while you’re fucking me?” She would have never guessed tonight’s fancy dinner would bloom into this moment between Max and her. A moment so monumental and yet so inevitable. Sparks had been flying between them since day one. Oh hell. Who was she kidding? She’d bought new panties for tonight.
“I’ll enter you.”
Erotic, yet… “Without foreplay?”
He arched a sexy eyebrow, and lust ricocheted through her like stray bullets at a shootout. “All of tonight has been about foreplay.” The more he spoke, the raspier his voice.
Excitement danced in her belly. “Did you know in California there’s a law making it illegal for either partner to climax before the other during foreplay?”
His pecs flexed.
A small feminine sound came out of her throat, making him smile.
“I will definitely make you climax first.”
Her hips gyrated against the mattress and his finger. “Talk is cheap. Action is much more impressive.”
He removed his finger from where it played its delicious stroking game.
She moaned in protest.
He straightened and clasped his hands behind his back. “After I’ve penetrated you, I will force myself to withdraw.”
She stopped wiggling. “But why?”
“To give you the foreplay that will have you screaming my name.”
“I’ve never had foreplay so good I screamed a guy’s name.” Is that because she’d never handed over control? Only one way to find out. Surrender and see.
Something flickered on his face. “Excellent.”
That was not love on his face. That was something else. Just because my thoughts are a blender of lust and love doesn’t mean his are. “Did you know sex toys are banned in some states, like Alabama?” Trivia grounded her when her attention span spun out of control.
“Do you have sex toys?” He looked amused.
She blinked. Holy fuck. Were they going there? “Since we’re at your place, the better question is do you?”
“I’ve never needed them to please a woman.”
She tried to lift one brow; they both went up. “What happens after you penetrate me and then withdraw?”
“I will lick or nibble or caress every delectable inch of you.”
She closed her eyes on the image of his tongue going where his finger had been. “Starting where?”
“The arch of your foot.”
She gripped the sheets tighter. “That’s a long way away from the part I’m thinking your tongue should lick.”
“My leisurely exploration will encompass all the highlights of your naked body. I’ll let you know which places taste the best with love nips.”
She knew the proper response if she wanted to match him dirty-talk for dirty-talk. But knowing and executing were on two different levels. “I bet you like the taste of my sweet spot best.” The frank words coming off her tongue turned her on. “Are you going to nip me there?”
She’d lied when she said she liked to talk dirty. Not really lied. She just hadn’t yet found a man she wanted to talk dirty to. Until this moment, sex had been about the release, not the foreplay.
Did talking sexy to Max equal some sort of commitment on her part?
His eyes closed. “Now that your hands have done what I needed them to do, I want to bind them to my bedframe with my tie. Scoot up there and center yourself.”
Bondage! Her stomach tightened, her breathing quickened, and a quake of anticipation-shivers collided with red-hot desire. Control was so overrated. She raised her arms above her head and spread her legs so he could settle between them while he bound her wrists.
The sensation of the cool silk against her warm skin was its own form of foreplay.
“Your tits make me want to start there with my licks.” His words were crude as if he needed a minute to downplay the emotions she could see in his eyes. He needn’t have worried. Reading a guy’s eyes was not a Johansson strong suit.
She might not be the type of woman he normally bedded, but damn it, she had every intention of being the best sex he ever had. “My nipples are on board with your plan.”
He glanced down, lingered, smiled, and then glanced back at her eyes. “Honey, my tongue isn’t coming near your tits until we’re both panting wildly.” As he spoke, he centered himself.
She wiggled against him. “Be a peach. Slide that in. Let’s see how it fits.”
As if he’d been there a hundred times before, surprisingly, he did just that.
Sweet baby Jesus. He’d said he would do that first, but she hadn’t believed him.
They both gasped.
He started to pull out, and she squeezed her muscles around him. “Not yet.”
He unleashed a smile on her, rocking her foundation. “Did I ever tell you I like to read the last page of a book before I read the book?”
That damn sm
ile should be a registered weapon. Why did he want to talk books? Probably the same reason she wanted to talk trivia. They each had their own walls. Walls that, if they weren’t careful, would tumble during sex. “You’ve never told me that,” she managed to say.
“I do, because I want to know the ending is good before I commit my time to the book.”
Another way they were different? She lived for surprises and new adventures. “And what does that have to do with what we’re doing?”
“I just read your last page. The ending is everything I want and so much more. Now, I will read your other pages. Savor every word. Linger over every chapter.”
Maybe he was on to something. And maybe, once you found a book you loved, you could be happy reading it over and over. She tried to move her hands, wanting to trap him in place. Her hands didn’t budge. “Why don’t you reread the last page? Make sure you didn’t miss any of the good parts.”
His gaze locked with hers, and the heat doubled in her body. “I plan on rereading that page many times. Just not at this moment. Now, I will read your acknowledgments page.” He withdrew.
Acknowledgments? She didn’t have acknowledgments. I’d like to thank the man who knocked up Meemaw and helped to create Mom. And the man who knocked up Mom to help create me. “I’d prefer you skip to the good parts. The sex scenes.”
He raised his left hand to her face and gently cupped her cheek. “I plan to attend to all of those pages as soon as I’ve tasted all of you.”
She wiggled against him. “Do you have a licking fetish?” Never would have pegged Max Treadwell as a kinky-on-the-sheets kind of guy.
He groaned. “I have an Aggie fetish.”
The tone in which he spoke the words sent a river of need storming through her. She struggled to maintain her side of the conversation and failed.
He, too, failed.
Instead of voice, he spoke with his fingertips, erotically brushing them downward. Over her chin, down her throat, over the swell of her breast, navigating the indentation of her waist, pausing momentarily to cup the side of her hip, before delightfully detouring its downward motion to cut across to the V of her legs.
