“What do you like to wear to bed, Leela?”
Dammit, why does my name have to have so many Ls and vowels in it? When Crosby says it, it sounds like…well, like he’s thinking of using his tongue to do more than speak my name.
I can’t—I won’t—entertain that thought. I’m so tired. And so sexually neglected. I am not in the right mind to even consider the images that float through my mind. Such as imagining Crosby’s lips saying something dirty while making me suck on his fingers. Such as that sensuous mouth suctioned around my nipple, his tongue stroking until they’re hard as stones. Or my legs planted on his shoulders while his mouth does terrible things to my pussy. Terrible and wonderful. Shit. I’m in trouble.
I yawn and stretch so hard that the knot of the bathrobe comes undone, and one boob falls out. Fortunately, I am quick enough and hike the blanket up before he sees anything. I think.
Crosby releases a deep, masculine groan mixed with a sigh at the sight of me stretching. His dark, amber-flecked eyes travel up and down the length of me. Honestly, the way he’s staring, I would not be surprised if he had superpowers to see through walls because that’s the face of a man thinking of what he’d like to do with the naked woman next to him.
“Can I help you with something else?”
Without a pause to consider, he says, “I’d like a goodnight kiss.”
I shouldn’t. It’s wrong to have a transactional kiss in exchange for all that money Crosby donated. But then again, it could be fun. And he does have nice lips.
“Are you serious?” Even I can hear how fake my indignation is now.
“Yes. It helps me sleep.”
I think about what this implies. If he knows a goodnight kiss helps him sleep, he gets a lot of goodnight kisses. Maybe every night. Perhaps a different girl is here giving him a kiss every night. And doing more. I have no claim on this man but this implication that my mind just conjured up has me feeling…what? Homicidal. Yes, I would cut a bitch if I saw him kissing someone else. It’s all okay. I don’t have to say that part out loud.
“Fine,” I say, sighing.
Crosby moves over me, trapping me to the bed with his legs around my hips and his elbows on my pillow. His hair falls around his face and tickles my cheek. I don’t know what I was expecting but dominance. It was too much to expect him to cradle me in his arms like a girlfriend and do something romantic. Of course, he would cage me in like I’m his toy. That’s the way he is.
Crosby’s mouth descends on mine in a soft, wet kiss. He wastes no time capturing my bottom lip between his and tasting me. Savoring me.
My entire body stiffens. And then, softly, slowly, I melt. Crosby adjusts and deepens the kiss slightly. The movement of his torso over the blankets generates friction that makes heat bloom in my core. I have to fight the automatic instinct to press my pelvis upward. Too much. I knew it wouldn’t be a peck, but…it’s too good. Too sensual. Too all-consuming.
I draw one arm out above the blankets in a half-hearted attempt to push him off me. Instead, it flops backward, my open palm lying limply above my head. If I aim to shove him off me, I’m afraid I’ll fist his shirt and tear it off instead.
And then, Crosby does the sweetest, most unexpected thing by inching his hand and touching our five fingertips together. The stroking is infinitesimal but sends electricity crackling through my fingers, down my arms, and straight to my middle.
I let out an involuntary whispered moan.
Crosby answers back with a low, quiet groan, then surges his tongue into my mouth. He lets his body press down on me a little while our stroking fingers weave together in a tight grasp. We breathe into each other. I do not recall how tired I was five minutes ago.
God almighty, I feel his hardness through his jeans and two blanket layers.
He pulls away from the kiss.
“Still want me to sleep above the blankets?”
The cocky arch of his eyebrow just ruined it. Or brings me back to reality. He really had me there. I never expected a goodnight kiss to turn into the hottest kiss of my life, followed by a bucket of cold water.
“Yes,” I snip, pushing him off of me and flipping back onto my side.
Chuckling, he flicks off the side table lamp.
“What are you laughing about?” I huff, wondering if he’s laughing because he thinks I’m a poor kisser.
“I’m laughing at how good you taste.” He says this in the same tone as someone paying a mild compliment over my homemade chicken and dumplings. And yet, flames lick up my thighs at the recent memory of his tongue against my tongue, my teeth, and the roof of my mouth. He tasted like cinnamon, like Fireball whiskey. I hate Fireball, and I plan to ban it from all of our future organized parties. It’s vulgar. But on Crosby’s lips, it’s a dessert. I can’t deny it.
I answer with an aggravated sigh and hunker down deeper under the covers. “Goodnight, Crosby.”
SIX
Leela