His hands found my hips then, roughly tugging me back from my whisper-light exploration of his throat, to stare deep into my eyes. ‘You think you still know me that well?’ he asked darkly.
Maybe not, but some things never changed and Bryce had more integrity in his little finger than most men did in their whole life. ‘Guess we’ll find out. Unless you’re too scared to take the dare?’
The words were barely out of my mouth before he was plucking me off my feet, the rugby-honed body he’d achieved in his time at Cambridge making light of my considerable weight. Bryce was the first and last man who’d been able to carry me without making me self-conscious about the extra pounds I carried. And while I’d shed a good few pounds during and after my divorce, I’d never quite achieved that golden figure of perfection in my head. And lately, I’d tried to be okay with that. It was, after all, what had earned me a dream career and sustained my growing empire.
But I still had moments of anxiety, moments when the mocking taunts and cruelty broke through my often solid barriers.
They tried to do so now.
But the moment Bryce tossed me onto the sofa and speared me with his dark hazel eyes, I let thoughts of the perfect BMI and cellulite melt from my brain. Instead I gave over to the tingling filling me from the inside out, registering in my peaked nipples, the dry anticipation in my mouth and the wet desperation between my legs.
He was still super pissed from our heated conversation and my final taunt, but already the anger was receding from his eyes, replaced by something earthier, something carnal that made my pulse stutter wildly before thundering even faster.
‘You’ve always been bold. But you seem to have developed a penchant for the downright reckless.’
I toyed with the long ties of my favourite wraparound top and slowly inched the hem up until a sliver of my belly was revealed. ‘I don’t see you throwing me out the door, so I’m guessing you still love a good challenge.’
A blaze flared in his eyes as he followed the path of my fingers over my taut stomach. In honour of this visit and simply because great lingerie always boosted my confidence, I’d donned one of my latest creations: fire-engine-red French knickers with delicate lace and cheeky ribbon ties and a matching balconette bra. With my reclined position, the bodice of my top had gaped to reveal my deep cleavage.
Another breath hissed from him as his eyes darted between my face, my full breasts, and the thighs I was slowly spreading. He stumbled forward and gripped the back of the sofa the moment I loosened the top to reveal the full effect of the bra and bullet-hard nipples.
‘Fuck.’ The word shot from his throat.
My gaze went its own journey, over the ripped chest I knew was hidden beneath his dark burgundy shirt to the bold outline of his cock beneath the fly of his tailored trousers. My mouth watered at the heat he was packing. Heat I’d secretly craved for as long as I could remember. But as much as I wanted to touch and explore, the need to experience what he’d given me that night in our distant past burned even hotter.
And Bryce felt the same if the rough hands that hooked behind my knees and spread me wide were an indication. My already rough breathing turned choppier.
‘Stop playing with that tie and open your top for me,’ he said gruffly as his hands trailed over soft leather to wrap around my ankles.
With a shrug and tug, I opened it, then arched my back to give him a full and unfettered view of my ample breasts.
He swallowed, then began to tackle my trousers with a wild little light in his eyes that triggered my own arousal. I should’ve been pleased that at least in this, we seemed to be in accord, but a tight little ball of anxiety wouldn’t shift from my belly. What if we never found common ground again? What if the friendship that had been my whole world was never salvaged?
The questions evaporated when Bryce discarded my trousers and leaned forward to brace himself over me. For several seconds, he didn’t move, simply stared into my eyes. Was he thinking the same? I never found out because his eyes swept over me, singeing every inch of me until his gaze was once again riveted between my thighs.
‘Did you wear this underwear for me, rosebud?’
‘Nope. They were for me.’
He dragged his gaze from my silk-covered sex to meet mine. ‘You needed to shred my control that much?’ he muttered.
‘Maybe.’ It was a little unnerving how well he knew me. To throw him off, I trailed a manicured fingernail over one heavy breast to my lace-covered nipple and slowly circled it. He caught and mangled one corner of his lower lip between his teeth as his gaze latched onto the tightened peak. After watching for a tense few seconds, he brushed my hand away and replaced it with his. Sensation screamed through me as he fondled me, his gaze darting between my face and my boobs, avidly absorbing my reactions, before he dropped his head to suck lace and flesh into his mouth.
My hot little gasp eroded my intention to tell him that, technically, my boobs weren’t part of the deal. That his task was situated much farther south. But the havoc he was wreaking was too thrilling to deny, his fingers plucking at the nipple he wasn’t sucking, a sweet torture that dragged a keening moan from my throat, and I lost the battle to curl my hands over his broad shoulders, to take a bite out of his gorgeousness.
God, he was far too good at this. My panties were already damp and he wasn’t anywhere near my pussy.
My fingers tunnelled into his hair, holding him prisoner as his teeth grazed over one aching bud. Like a willing magnet, my back arched into his ministrations, desperate for more.
He raised his head a fraction. ‘Tell me this thing has a front fastening. I don’t want to ruin it.’
Breath in my throat, I shook my head.
‘Bloody hell,’ he growled, then dipped his hands into the lace and scooped out my boobs.
The erotic sensation of my double Ds spilling out made us both groan.
‘Christ, you’re so fucking lush,’ he muttered, slashes of colour staining his chiselled cheekbones. ‘There isn’t an inch of you I don’t want to taste.’
With needy hands I dragged him back, crying out when he latched onto my peak again. The suction was even more intense, tongue and teeth coming into deeper play.
‘God, yes,’ I gasped as he mercilessly tormented me.
Maybe the crazy depth of sensation careening through me was because I hadn’t had good sex for so long.
By our first wedding anniversary, Dan had been hard-pressed to perform the bare minimum. By our second, we’d been down to the cursory once-a-month three-minute humping in the shower to convince ourselves we had something remotely resembling a marriage. The transition from there to divorce had been a measly miserable nine months.
Or maybe I was feeling like this because this was Bryce. An older, edgier version of the boy who’d blazed a memorable trail in the public school I’d despised until his arrival had made my existence bearable, the rugby-loving hunk I’d hung out with in Cambridge, and the man who’d been my best friend for years before he’d removed himself from my life.
Whatever the reason for my heightened emotions, a particularly clever twist of his fingers dragged me back to the present, to the heated blaze of his eyes fixed on me as he tormented me.
I gasped again as he lowered his head, flicked his tongue brazenly over my wet flesh and then blew on it.
‘Bryce…’
He kept hold of one globe as he trailed kisses down my midriff and belly to the edge of my panties. Crouched over me like some dark overlord, he scoured his nails lightly over the skin above the panty line, leaving a trail of goosebumps in his wake. He repeated the action a few times, his other hand still tormenting my nipple, and each time I felt myself getting shamefully wetter.
By the time