I swallowed hard. Because those tiny shorts he was wearing wasn’t helping my libido. His bare chest was a hard plane of masculine muscle and sharp angles, and I wanted to run my hands over it, over the furrowed ridges of his abs, wanted to trace the hard V-cut where torso met abs met hips met cock.
Trace, taste, with hands, tongue.
“You can’t look at me like that, Poppy. Not and think this is going to stay platonic.”
“Look at you like what?” I asked. “And what makes you think I want anything to stay platonic?”
“Maybe I was mistaken, but in my experience, when a woman says ‘I’m tired,’ that’s generally code for ‘piss off, mate, it’s not fuckin’ happenin’.’”
I laughed. “Yeah, that’s pretty accurate, generally.”
“So that’s what made me think you want this to stay platonic.”
“Maybe I don’t know what I want.”
His lip curled in amusement. “You talk dirty like you can’t wait to fuck, and then you go through my personal effects, and then you say you’re tired, and then you look at me like I’m something to eat and you’re fucking starved. Yeah, Poppy, I’d say you’re a smidge unsure of what you want.”
A silence, breathing and coiling and hissing between us like a rattlesnake, taut with tension. Did I dare go down that road with Errol?
How could I not, though? That was the real question. After the way he’d made me come? Fast, and hard, and numerously, just with his tongue and fingers? Could I—and more to the point,wouldI—let slip an opportunity to experience what promised to be the hottest sex of my life?
Yeah, probably not.
I was working out what to say, how to push us past this silence, when Errol did it for us.
“Fuck it,” he breathed, his voice a low, guttural snarl. “Not gonna stand here waiting for you to figure yourself out, Pop.” His fingers closed on the edges of my towel, applying enough tension to begin loosening the knot at my chest, but giving me ample opportunity to demure. “You figure out youdon’twant it, now’s the chance to say so. Otherwise, I’m taking what I want from you.”
I held my breath. “What you want?” I echoed.
“What’s the matter, Poppy? Cat got your tongue?”
“That’s such a stupid saying. What does it even mean?” I reached out, rested my hands on his hard waist, touching firm warm skin and angular bone.
“Dunno,” he murmured. “Don’t rightly care, either.” He was still holding the edges of my towel, still threatening to rip it off. “Last chance.”
I tucked my fingers inside the waistband of his short shorts. “Or what, Errol?”
“Or I’ll have you facedown on this bed with my cock inside your tight little pussy before you’ve blinked twice.”
I stared up at him, eyes wide. Blinked once. Twice. Bold, daring him to follow through. “Weird. Didn’t work.”
He growled a laugh, yanked sharply on the towel. The rough, cheap white terrycloth fluttered to the floor, leaving me nude.
Oh, shit. He wasnotplaying. His fingers hooked into me, driving into my slit, two of them filling me and scissoring, his thumb pressing against my clit. Tugged me closer.
Heat billowed within me, abrupt and tumultuous and fervent. My knees buckled at the sudden assault, but I was held up by his touch, his two middle fingers scissoring and twirling inside me, his thumb scraping and pressing and circling, and it was all at once, and not gentle, just rough enough to feelsogood.
All he needed was the one hand, apparently. The other just dangled at his side, and he took me from unsure to orgasm in sixty seconds flat, had me quivering and shaking, had my knees buckling yet again so I was forced to cling to him and be held up by those same digits pierced inside me.
As I came, gasping, whimpering, needing to fall, laughing in disbelief at how fast he could bring me to climax, he just watched, a slow grin on his face, lips smirking, eyes wild.
His fingers slowed as my orgasm blossomed to full flower, leaving my face buried in his chest, my arms around his neck, hips driving against his fingers.
“Fucking hell, Errol,” I gasped. “How do you do that?”
He growled a gruff laugh, his fingers slicking out of me and releasing me unexpectedly, so my knees gave out. He let me fall, pushing me backward onto the bed. I hit the mattress, and he was on me by the time I’d bounced once. Lips locked around my left nipple, tonguing my piercing until I screamed, another climax shearing through me—or the precursor to one. My hips bucked and I snarled my fingers into his hair, and he did not let up, one hand cupping my breast and shoving it into his mouth, his other hand around my other breast, fingers tweaking the bar and flicking my nipple.
“Ohfuck,” I groaned, arching up to press my tits against him. “Yes, fuck, yes, please, Errol.”
