Coy leans back, his eyes twinkling. “Are you frustrated?”
“Yes. But it’ll help when I throw your ass out of here.”
He laughs. “You think you can do that?”
I give him a look that questions his sanity.
“We’re gonna get one thing straight before anything transpires here,” he says, running his hands down my neck, over my shoulders, and down my arms.
I shiver at the contact. “Huh?”
“You’re going to stop being so damn difficult.”
His hands drop away from my body, and finally, I can think again.
I take a step back. “Maybe I have demands,” I say, thinking on the fly. “Maybe I have something we need to get straight too.”
He grins. “Give it to me, sugar.”
That’s what I want to do, asshole.
As if he reads my mind, he bursts out laughing.
I roll my eyes. “You are so predictable.”
“Me? Am I predictable? I know exactly what you were thinking, and that defines predictability.”
He shrugs with a playful arrogance that only makes me want to one-up him. He’s not getting the power position. Not in my house.
I shrug back, mocking his gesture to me, and head to my bedroom. He follows. I don’t point out how predictable that is.
“You really didn’t get my text message that night?” I ask him, flipping on the bedroom light.
“Nope.”
He stands in the doorway and leans against the frame.
I face the full-length mirror so that he can see my face in the reflection. After holding his gaze for a moment too long—just enough time for him to be confident that my actions are, indeed, intentional—I lift the hem of my shirt and tug it over my head.
His pupils widen, but he doesn’t move.
“Oh,” I say as if I’m not disrobing mid conversation. “And you didn’t know I was a virgin?”
I hold his gaze again for a solid second before unfastening my bra.
“Nope,” he says with a pop on the p. His gaze settles on my beaded nipples in the reflection.
“That makes me feel less hateful toward you,” I say.
I unfasten the button on my jeans, yank the zipper down, and slide the denim down my legs. Coy’s eyes follow the movement as I kick them into a corner with my shirt and bra.
“That makes me feel a lot of ways toward you.” He widens his eyes for effect as he watches my fingers dip beneath the waistband of my red lace panties. “May I ask what the fuck you’re doing?”
I drag my finger under the fabric before letting it snap back against my skin. The sound makes Coy flinch.
“What?” I ask, raising a brow as I watch him in the mirror. “Did you want more?”
He sighs, fighting a smile, as he realizes I’m giving his words back to him.
I pout as I lean forward, holding his gaze, and pull the lace down my legs as slowly as I can. Once they hit the floor, I stand back up and kick them away as well.
“Bellamy …” He groans but doesn’t walk toward me.
“Are you frustrated, Coy?” I toss him a wink. “That’s what you asked me, isn’t it?”
“I’ll be less frustrated when I throw your ass—”
I squeal, interrupting his sentence, as he picks me up and throws me on the bed. Pillows bounce as I make contact with the blankets. My hands go to my breasts as they bounce too.
Coy stands at the edge of the bed and does quick work of ridding himself of his clothes.
My mouth waters as he bares his solid, muscled chest and his chiseled abdomen. The lines on his hips point to his thick, hard cock. A bead of precum glistens at the tip.
My fingers skim down my stomach and toward my clit.
“Don’t,” he warns.
I don’t listen. I do slow down, though, because I’m not exactly sure what to do about the intensity of Coy’s gaze.
“Dammit, Bells. I mean it. If you touch yourself, I’ll get dressed and leave.”
I think he means it. My fingers stop just above the pebble that aches for relief.
My thighs are sticky from the wetness. My body temperature soars. My heart beats between my legs. All of my blood pools in my vagina, causing my clit to swell.
“I don’t have a condom with me,” he says through gritted teeth. “I kind of want you to have one laying around, and I kind of fucking don’t.”
“Why?” I grin. “Do you not like the idea of me fucking someone else in this bed?”
His chuckle is deep. Unamused. More of a warning than a gesture of entertainment.
Because I’m clearly a masochist, it turns me on.
But, because I’m also unwilling to piss him off enough to ruin this before it even gets started, I acquiesce.
“There are condoms on the bedside table,” I say, fluttering my eyelashes. “I just bought them. You’ll get to open the box.”
He’s unsure if I’m joking or not. But when he finds the box with intact cellophane, he grins triumphantly.