He rolls his eyes. “My God. How much stroking does your ego need?”
I wrap a hand around my dick. “Baby, it’s not the ego that needs stroking. Although the ego is directly connected to my cock.”
“And you want me to stroke that?”
“You know you want to,” I say, but I’m undeterred from my true mission. I’m determined to know how long he’s been into me. I’m greedy like that. “Anyway, you looked me up. You knew my pro stats.”
“I told you I did my homework,” he says, but we both know he’s lying.
Good thing I’ve learned how to extract the truth from him.
“Tell me,” I whisper as I cover him with my body, press my lips to his, and give him a soft, tender kiss. He murmurs under me. A sexy sound that turns into a long, low, groan of pleasure. And then, it begins—the melting of Mark Banks. I can feel the shift in him. The way his body responds, how he lets go of his constant need for control, how my kisses unlock him.
It’s crazy to think that a kiss can do that, but mine seem to have that effect on this man. That’s a gift—one I don’t want to deny.
I skate my mouth along his jaw, under it, kissing my way down his neck, across his Adam’s apple. Then I slide my thumb over his morning stubble, and give him one more slow, sleepy kiss that tastes like sunshine and shared secrets.
When I pull back, his eyes are hazy. “You know I looked you up,” he whispers.
“Tell me why.”
His jaw tightens. “Why do you think?”
“You had a thing for me,” I say, taking a guess.
I really want to be correct on this count. I like being right almost as much as I like driving fast cars and drinking expensive wine.
But not at the same time.
“If by ‘having a thing for you’ you mean I thought you were an arrogant dick, then yes,” he says, in that dry tone he’s mastered.
I scoff-laugh. “Then why bother looking me up, Banks?”
His eyes travel purposefully down my body. “Because you were a superhot arrogant dick.”
Emphasis on were.
I really want to ask if he still thinks I’m a smug bastard. But I kiss those lush lips instead, indulging in as much of him as I can get. When I break the kiss, I press on, since these fun and games are just that?fun. “So what do you say, Banks? What’s on your phone? What’s your equivalent of me keeping the best text thread ever?”
He heaves a sigh. “Stupid fucking picture,” he mutters, without meeting my gaze.
That gets my interest. “You saved a picture of me?”
He shuts his eyes, like this pains him.
Maybe I should relent, but I can’t back down. Another kiss. Another sweep of my lips along his jaw, across his collarbone, up to his ear. And I whisper again, “What picture did you save?”
His body twists deliciously under me, his hands roping around my back, gripping my ass. “The one from the engagement party,” he grits out, vulnerability in his tone.
I pull back. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Show it to me.”
“Why? You were there.”
“Don’t you get it? I want to see it for the same reason you have it,” I admit.
For once, Mark Banks loses his poker face. In its place is a smile.
The grin doesn’t retreat as he reaches for his phone, swipes his thumb on the screen, clicks around. He shows me the picture of us from that night. I whistle in appreciation of the two hot guys in the shot. “Look at that. You’re scowling. I’m grinning like a cocky asshole.”
Mark snorts. “Yep. It’s our . . .”
He trails off before he says our love language.
But I know that’s what he meant. I was going to say the same thing.
Maybe because the moment’s getting too heavy, too intense, he shifts gears. “So, you were kind of checked out for a bit last night. Does it really bother you that your ex got engaged?” Mark asks the question evenly, in the same tone he used to talk to the chef, the florist, the officiant.
But I understand him better now. This is not a business question he’s asking me. It’s personal, and important to him. He shared the story of the demise of his marriage with me, so I crack open my recent history.
“We were together for a year. I was about to ask Garrett to move in with me and he told me he met someone else. The rest is history.”
“Wow. That sucks.”
It did. But I’m not entirely sure the brief bout of self-loathing I wrestled with last night was about Garrett after all. Hearing that news reminded me of the grade my ex gave me in the relationship department—an F. “He didn’t think I was a very good boyfriend.”
Mark meets my gaze head on. “Are you a bad boyfriend?”