It Happened One Summer (It Happened One Summer 1)

Yes.

Bottom line, she’d spent twenty-eight years building this image and couldn’t just start over from scratch.

Could she have Brendan tonight and still keep her eye on that reality?

Of course she could.

Ignoring the notch in her throat, Piper pushed back from the table and stood, champagne in hand. She rounded the piece of furniture slowly, gratified when his throat worked in a heavy swallow. His eyes and chin were stubborn, though.

Well, if he was going to be obstinate, she’d have to play to win.

Piper slipped between Brendan and the table, scooting it back a little so she could stand comfortably in the V of his thighs. His eyes were all but black with hunger, lighting on her cleavage, her thighs and hips, her mouth. As soon as she raked the fingers of her free hand into his hair, that big chest started to heave, his eyelids drifting shut. “Piper,” he said hoarsely. “This isn’t why I invited you to dinner.”

She took her hand back, set down the champagne being held in the other, and tucked her fingers under the straps of her dress. “Maybe it’s not the only reason,” she murmured, peeling down the green velvet bodice, leaving her breasts bare mere inches from his mouth. “But it’s one of them, isn’t it?”

Brendan opened his eyes, and a shudder racked him, his hands flying up to grip her hips. “Oh Jesus fucking Christ, they’re so pretty, baby.” He leaned in, pressing his open mouth to the smooth path of skin between her breasts, breathing heavily, using his hold on her hips to pull her closer, like he couldn’t help it. “This is where you put that perfume, isn’t it? Right here between your sexy little tits.”

The desperation in his hands, the chafe of velvet on flesh, turned her nipples to points. “I put it there for you tonight,” she whispered into his hair. “All for you.”

He moaned, turned his head slightly so he could breathe against her nipple. “I know what you’re doing. You want to make this about fucking.”

Her pulse skittered in her ears. “Stop overthinking it and touch me.”

Still, he hesitated, that jaw about to shatter.

Piper reached back and picked up the champagne flute, taking a slow sip. She swallowed most of the bubbly liquid, but left a trace of it on her tongue, bringing it to Brendan’s lips. Licking the champagne into his mouth. “Told you I’d get you to try it,” she murmured, teasing the tip of his tongue with her own. “Want more?”

That big body swayed closer, lines of strain appearing around his mouth. “Please . . .”

“You don’t have to beg,” Piper said, bringing the champagne flute to her breasts, tipping the glass and letting the champagne trickle out over one nipple, then the next, and Brendan started to pant. “Not for something we both want. Touch me, Brendan. Taste me. Please?”

“Christ, I have to.” He traced his mouth to her left nipple, pressed his bared teeth against it, before rubbing his tongue against the stiff bud, yanking her hips forward, the move arching her back so she had to use his hair for balance, taking two big handfuls. Her mouth was in an O, watching him savor her, manhandle her body. No games. Just need.

His mouth raced down to her belly button, licking that hollow where some of the dripping champagne had ended up, before rising again to the opposite breast, suckling harder now. Devouring. She’d intended to be in control here, but his mouth was delivering the most incredible texture and suction, and her ass bumped back against the table clumsily, a sob ripping from her throat. “Brendan,” she gasped. “Brendan.”

“I know, baby. Can I put my hands up your dress?” he rasped, his palms already kneading the backs of her thighs, his beard stroking back and forth over her distended nipple, and sending a rush of wet to the apex of her thighs. “Piper.”

“What?” she breathed, head spinning. “Whatever you said. Yes. Yes.”

Those busy hands moved faster than lightning, clutching her ass so roughly, the air evacuated her lungs. He drew her forward so he could pant directly against her belly, his hands never ceasing to massage, squeeze, and lift the flesh of her bottom, his calloused fingers tangling in her thong in his haste to touch, to mold.

“Y-you’re an ass man, I guess,” she stammered.

He shook his head. “No, Piper. I’m a this-ass man.”

“Oh,” she simpered.

That was oddly romantic. And possessive. And she liked both of those qualities too much. She needed to regain control somehow, because she’d severely miscalculated how quickly Brendan could pull her under. This attraction was even more dangerous than she’d originally thought. “Brendan,” she managed, taking hold of his broad shoulders and using every ounce of her strength to push him back into his chair. “W-wait, I . . .”