Escaping Reality (The Secret Life of Amy Bensen #1)

A low groan escapes his throat and his hand caresses over my hip and palms my backside, pulling my hip flush with his, his thick erection pressing into my belly. “I’ve wanted to taste you since the moment I saw you in the terminal,” he murmurs, and his breath is warm, a wicked seduction against my mouth.

“Feel free to do it again,” I whisper, and I am surprised at the boldness of my words. But then, I’ve never had anyone as tantalizingly male as Liam Stone to inspire me.

“I’m going to do a whole lot more than kiss you, baby,” he promises, and his mouth covers mine, his tongue once again pressing past my lips, and I feel the lick between my thighs, in the deep throb of my sex. I have never wanted like this and I like it far too much to let inexperience, or a note on a bathroom mirror, interfere. This is one night for me. One night.

Where that concept had bothered me before, it feels remarkably liberating now.

My nerves have nothing on my desire to lose myself in this amazing man, who is like no one I have ever known, who I will probably never see again. Determined to enjoy every minute with him, and every inch of him while I’m at it, I sink into the kiss, my tongue caressing his, drinking him in. Boldly, I slip my hands under his shirt, my palms flattening on hard muscle beneath warm, taut skin. Touching him is wonderful, addictive. I am trembling inside, aroused in a way no man has ever made me feel.

Confidence builds inside me and my hand strokes a path down his zipper. His hand goes to mine and he tears his mouth from mine, his fingers move from my neck, tangling in my hair, tugging me backwards with a gentle, erotic force. “How old are you?”

The questions shatters a little part of me not even fully realized. This is not a reaction a girl wants when touching a man. “Why does that matter?”

“How old, Amy?”

“Twenty-four.” I don’t even know why I answer. I shouldn’t have answered.

“How many men have you f**ked?”

I gasp. “You can’t ask me that.”

“I just did. How many?”

I don’t like where this has gone. I don’t like how I suddenly don’t know if he thinks I’m a virgin for my limited experience or a hussy for my fast actions. Either way, this is not an escape anymore. I try to shove away from him, but his grip in my hair doesn’t loosen. “Let go,” I hiss.

“This was a mistake. I don’t know you. I don’t do this kind of thing.” Great. Now he thinks I’m a virgin. I can’t get this right. “I mean, I do. No. I don’t. I don’t do this kind of thing.”

“It’s quite clear you do not do this kind of thing,” he says, releasing me, and I hate how much I wish he had not, after what he has made me feel. Or how relieved I am when he plants his hands by my head, caging me as if he doesn’t want me to escape. “But I do, Amy. I do this kind of thing. I have short, quick, well-protected affairs with women who get that I’m not going to be around tomorrow. Women who do not care enough about who I am to find out my name or how much money I have.”

My defenses flare, verging on anger. What is he accusing me of? Being a virgin, a slut, or a money-grubber? “I didn’t try to find out about you. You made me read the Wiki page. You made me.”

“I know. I wanted you to know me and to trust me. I still do.”

I soften, confused. I stay confused with this man. “I don’t understand. You just said…and I know and…why are you, and I and…” My God, I’m an educated woman and I’ve lost the ability to form coherent sentences.

“The same reason I showed you my design on the plane.”

“Which is why?”

“Because against every rule I have ever set, I wanted to.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“Then let me be more clear.” His cheek slides over mine, his whiskers scraping erotically over my delicate skin, his lips pressing to my ear. “You’re a beautiful woman who deserves to be properly f**ked, which I conclude from both your actions and answers to my questions, that you have not been. I want to be the man to remedy that. I want it very much.” His arm wraps my waist, shackling me to him as if he fears I will get away, his free hand stroking down my hair, as he huskily adds, “Probably too much.” He moves then, his intense blue eyes staring down at me, searching my eyes. “I don’t know what you’re running from, but I know you’re running.”

My heart jackhammers. “No, I’m not. I’m not.”

He brushes his lips over mine. “And I’m not asking you to tell me why,” he says, rejecting my denial. “But just know that I have every intention of making you forget everything but what it feels like to have my tongue and my c**k buried inside you.”

My lashes lower and heat pools low in my belly, then settles hard between my thighs.

I’ve never even had a man use the word “fuck” with me before, let alone promise to f**k me properly, but I fear he will make me forget why my silence is golden. “I don’t—”

“Look at me, Amy.” There is a command in his voice and for reasons I cannot explain, I am compelled to comply. My gaze lifts to his. “I do,” he promises. “And I like the idea that I am the man who’ll make sure you do, too.”

He’ll make sure I know. This is exactly everything I need to hear. He’s promised to be demanding and to take me to unknown territory, but that I won’t be there in the dark. I am so very tired of being in the dark. I wrap my arms around his neck and make sure he knows how important this is to me. “I want to know. I need to know.”