“To trim my lady bits,” she says with sauce. “Now, let’s make that raggedy beard nice and tidy—”
“Hold up. You’re telling me that’s your pussy trimmer?”
“Rye! God, you’re crude.”
“Bren, we’ve established you’re just as crude.”
“Hardly.”
“Answer the question.”
She sets a hand on her hip and glares. “I already told you what it was. And I’m not calling it a pussy trimmer, if that’s what you’re after.”
“No, no…” My voice is strangled. “I’m just clarifying.”
Her eyes narrow. “You’re not going to get all weird about this, are you? I promise, I clean it well after every use.”
“I’m not going to get weird. I just have a really good visual imagination. And I’m hard as steel right now.”
Her gaze darts down, and she sucks in a breath. Like I said, the robe she gave me is too small. My dick stands at eager attention, jutting out between the flaps of the terry cloth. Brenna’s gaze turns hazy, and she licks her lips. My horny dick jumps as if trying to flag her down.
“Put that thing away,” she murmurs, her breathing uneven.
Something I absolutely love about Brenna? She’s a fiend for my cock. She loves playing with it, sucking it…I’d marry her for that alone. I don’t think she’d appreciate that particular motivating factor. But I do. The memories of all the times she’s toyed with my body surge to the surface, and I get so hot, I swear I’m a little light-headed.
Grinning wide, I lean back, parting my thighs. Just enough to let the robe slip farther open. “Putting it away is going to be a problem, Berry. It’s too hard.”
“Rye…” She’s attempting to sound stern, but it doesn’t work, given that she’s still eyeing my hard-on like it’s candy.
She has no idea how much her lust turns me on. She couldn’t, or she wouldn’t torture me so much with it. Or maybe she would. Brenna loves to tease as much as I do. I nudge my hips, lifting my dick a bit higher, my knee rocking with hypnotic slowness. Taunting her, even though my heart is threatening to pound right out of my chest.
“You gonna help me out here, Bren?”
Her lips part, her pink tongue darting out. My cock actually pulses. I swallow a groan. The trimmers hit the counter with a clatter. As though moving through water, Brenna sinks to her knees before me, her clever hand going to the tie of the robe. Cool air hits my hot skin.
Gaze rapt on my dick, she slides a hand up my thigh and gently strokes my hip. Then her free hand, cool and slim, wraps around my aching flesh. She gives it a tug.
“God, Rye, just look at you.” Damn if I don’t feel her gaze moving over my body with something close to awe. It trips my heart, makes my mouth dry. She licks her lips, greedy, her voice husky. “You’re so…”
I don’t get the rest. The wet pull of her mouth is on me a second later, and I’m lost.
I’m so fucking lost.
Chapter Eighteen
Brenna
“Spend the day with me,” he’d asked.
Never mind he asked with his mouth between my legs, his newly trimmed beard rubbing oh so gently against my swollen flesh. When I could only answer yes.
And yes.
And, oh, fuck, yes.
I hadn’t thought to ask where, how. It hadn’t mattered.
So here I am, walking up the steps into the Metropolitan Museum of Art with Rye Peterson at my side. He takes my hand in his. And I don’t pull away. His clasp is gentle, the skin on his palm callused and worn. His beautiful, fragile hand.
“This wasn’t exactly what I thought you had in mind when you asked me to spend the day with you,” I say as we collect our tickets.
Rye stops and carefully presses a little sticker that shows we’ve paid for entry onto my silk blouse just below the collar. His fingers trail over my shoulder before dropping away. Wry humor glints in his denim-blue eyes. “You thought we’d stay in bed fucking, didn’t you?”
A woman glances our way, clearly overhearing, and I step closer to Rye.
“Hush. This is a tourist spot. People will listen here.”
His lips quirk. “And you don’t want them to know of our special lovin’?”
Narrowing my eyes, I poke his firm abs with my finger. “I’m about to give you a special ass kicking, buttercup.”
He grins outright, and his arm snakes around my waist to pull me up against him. “Kinky, Berry.” His lips brush over mine. “Stop thinking about sex, we’re here to see art.”
The nerve. “I’m thinking—”
He cuts me off with another light kiss then tugs me along beside him. “I know what you’re thinking. And you can use my body later. For now, we’re getting our culture on.”
Torn between grumbling and laughing, I follow him into the Egyptian wing. The museum has just opened, so it’s fairly empty, which is something of a relief. The last time I was here, it was filled with so many people, I nearly lost it. I’m fine with crowds, but I’ve never seen the point of viewing art when you have to vie for even a small peek of it.