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Lying flat, coldness seeps into my backside, but it's quickly forgotten as Hayden hoists himself out of the tub, drapes his body over mine, and entangles our limbs, water trickling off his skin like a warm blanket.
Wet suction resonates out into the night air, while he works up the column of my throat, painting a trail of saliva. Until he stops and focuses on that one spot at the crook of my jaw, sucking and biting, then darting his tongue out to soothe the burn, all while grinding his leg into my sex.
Desperate, I buck against him, coating his thigh with my slickness, squirming beneath his weight in a crazed heat.
"Fuck, baby," he groans, his lips popping from my skin, leaving behind a thumping soreness as he retreats to the water.
"What're you doing?" I pant, my sex throbbing with need.
"Making sure you forget his name."
Jonah?
My mouth opens, but no sound comes out, only a squeal when strong arms wrap around my thighs, then yank me to the edge of the tub. I look down, past the grooves of my body, and find him at the end, staring back at me, his mouth inches from my pussy.
I gasp, holding in that gulp of air, because all I see are my fantasies flashing before my eyes, the ones where Hayden buries his face between my thighs.
Oh, fuck, oh, fuck, oh—
His breath tickles against my flesh. "Are you drunk?"
I quirk a brow. What an oddly timed question.
"No, of course not."
"Good." He sinks a finger past my entrance, pinning me down by my waist when I buckle at the intrusion. "Then you won't be able to explain away this bad decision, will you?"
Fire rages down my middle, making coherent thoughts nearly impossible, as I stretch around his finger, allowing more in, little by little, its size longer and thicker than I'm accustomed.
Explain away? Why would I—
Then it hits me.
This—what we're doing right now—isn't the bad decision he's referring to.
He is.
Hayden Kingston, Manhattan's most notorious heartthrob, a self-proclaimed playboy, who collects broken hearts like they're diamonds for his Rolex or trophies to stomp beneath his patent leather loafers. In his eyes, love is a game, which makes falling for him the worst decision of them all.
But I'm not developing feelings—I can't be.
I won't allow it.
"It's only lust," I say without wavering, injecting confidence into my tone, even though it doesn't quite resonate down to my bones. "There's nothing more between us."
His finger stops abruptly, halfway inside of me.
A mysterious shadow flickers across Hayden's features, something that looks an awful lot like hurt. And my goodness, could I not devise a more unbecoming expression for him, like a wilted flower in a storm that, for reasons I can't explain, almost convinces me to retract my statement. Except, in the blink of an eye, I wonder if I really did imagine it all as he stares back at me, wearing his usual haughty smirk.
"Right?" I ask, anyway.
He snorts. "Who do you think you're talking to?"
His finger curls upward, hitting a spot that has me arching my back and rolling my eyes up into the sky, until it retracts, forcing a moan from my lips. My insides clench around air at the sound of his deep baritone as he curses, inspecting his finger glistening under the starry lights.
"So fucking wet."
I whine, squirming against his hold.
