Page 88 of Playing Mr. Perfect

I tangle my hands in her hair, thrusting into her hot, willing mouth again and again. She moves with me, her eyes locked on me like a fucking fantasy. I drive into her harder, faster, until I’m ready to blow. “Your mouth is too fucking perfect.” I grab the base of my cock and pull out. “I want to make you come, and I want to finish inside you.”

Her wicked smile has my dick aching as I lift her to her feet and crush my mouth to hers, kissing the ever-loving hell out of her. Then I spin her around. “Hands on the desk, baby.” When she does what I say, I yank her dress up, baring her beautiful ass, and sink down, needing to taste her. I lick her pussy. “Christ, you’re so fucking sweet.”

She looks over her shoulder, her eyes blazing. “Fuck me,” she demands, breathless and needy.

Hearing those words from that sweet mouth nearly does me in. I grab a condom from my wallet and make quick work of sheathing my cock and aligning our bodies. Clutching her hips, I drive into her. “Yes,” she cries out, her pleasure-drenched voice sending me into a frenzy of desire. I pound into her, reaching around to work her clit, earning moans and pleas. “Harder…Ohmygod…Faster…Yes—” Her pussy grips my cock like a vise, and my name flies from her lips as she rides out her pleasure. Her moans rise around us, and I grit my teeth against the need to come, staying with her until she shudders around me.

“I need your mouth.” I pull out and turn her around, taking her in a ruthless kiss as I lift her onto the desk. I guide her legs around my waist and bury myself to the hilt in one hard thrust. I curse at the excruciating pleasure consuming me, and she cries out, “Again!”

My restraint snaps, and we fuck like we’ll never get another chance. We’re rough and animalistic. I reclaim her mouth in a merciless kiss as she shatters, her pussy pulsing around my cock, her hips bucking. I’m enraptured in her, lost in a hailstorm of sensations, but the greedy bastard in me needs to see her face. I grab her hair, tugging her mouth away from mine. Her eyes are wild, and as her body clamps around my cock, a sinful sound flies from her lungs, shooting through me like lightning, catapulting me into sheer, mind-blowing ecstasy.

We thrust and grind, clinging to each other, our bodies jerking with aftershocks, both of us breathing hard. When we finally still, I lift my face from the tangle of her hair. Our eyes connect with a thrum of heat, and I swear I feel something deep and moving weaving between us. But in the next breath, we’re laughing, and she’s burying her face in my shoulder. I’m falling so hard for this incredible woman, and I’m so caught up in us, I love you nearly tumbles out, but my gaze catches on the security camera near the door, and reality comes rushing in. “Reckless?”

“Hm?”

“Does your building have security cameras in here, or are they yours? Because I think we just made a sex tape.”

She gasps and whips her head around, looking up at the camera. “Shit. It’s ours, but Ravi has access to it.”

“Hey, Ravi,” I call out, waving to the camera.

“Clay!” She smacks my chest. “We have to delete it!”

“No way. I’m taking that footage home with me.”

She laughs. “You are not.”

“Hell yeah, I am. Bet I can sell it for a pretty penny.” I absolutely love making her squirm. “Just one more place to your ever-growing Never Have I Ever list.”

“Ohmygod. Who have I become?” She presses her face to my shoulder.

I give her hair a gentle tug, bringing those shimmering eyes to mine. “Who you were always meant to be. My sexy scientist.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

Pepper

I wake up Saturday morning to my empty bed but not an empty house. The faint smell of coffee hangs in the air, and the clothes we’d left strewn around the room in our haste to get naked are draped over the chair by the window with the sketch of us from Paris. It feels like a dream, that Clay is here, shattering my comfort zones one at a time. I’ve never had a man spend the night at my house. I lie still, surrounded by his scent on my sheets and my body, expecting to feel strange or anxious about him being here, but I don’t. I like seeing his clothes on my chair and knowing he’s downstairs. That should bring anxiety, too, but it doesn’t. It’s that thought that rattles me.

I climb out of bed, put on the T-shirt he wore under his sweater yesterday, and head into the bathroom. I use the toilet, and as I brush my teeth, I see the evidence of our wild night in the red mark peeking out from beneath the collar of his shirt. I touch it absently, thinking about last night.

After much back-and-forth, Clay somehow convinced me to let him download the footage of our sexy office encounter—We’ll laugh about it when we’re old and gray—before deleting the original and the backup. He talks like we’re a given and we have a future, and he makes it easy to get caught up in it with him. I know we have things to talk about and figure out, but I’ve never felt like this, and I’m not ready to rock the boat.

I put on my fuzzy slippers and head downstairs. There’s Motown music coming from the kitchen. I peer around the corner and see Clay dancing in his black boxer briefs by the stove, singing along with “Ain’t Too Proud to Beg” as he cracks eggs into a pan. Holy cow, the man can dance, but he sings as off-key as I do! He cracks another egg and spins around, catching me watching him.

He grins and belts out the lyrics, dancing over to me. He takes my hand and spins me around, making me laugh. “Sing with me, Reckless.”

“Trust me, you don’t want that. I’m worse than you are.”

“Impossible.” He sings louder, holding my hand and dancing around me. “Come on, baby. Let me hear you sing.”

I shake my head.

When the song ends, he turns off the stove and draws me into his arms. “You look adorable in my shirt.”

“You look adorable in my kitchen.”

“I took a picture of the sunrise for you.”