3. Ego
EGO
PRESENT
“What’s the weirdest dream you’ve had recently?” Michael prompts.
“Oh, that’s easy. There was an alien invasion at my college campus because they needed ‘resources,’ but they wound up just stealing paperclips and sex dolls.”
Michael damn near chokes on a swig of beer as he starts to laugh. Even amid his coughing, the question is scrawled all over his face.
I just shrug. “I’d been drinking at a fraternity that night, so I blame the booze.”
Despite my attempts to see Michael’s tattoo, he has yet to remove his shirt, but I’m hardly complaining.
Since neither of us wants to discuss our families or risk going back inside, we’ve decided to play a round of Twenty Questions to kill some time.
Though, we passed twenty questions about, oh, say, eighty questions ago.
Since the tequila bottle Michael pilfered would leave us both shitfaced, he snuck back inside just long enough to grab a couple beers instead.
We’re taking our time drinking them, but my bottle is undoubtedly light, and the sun is starting to disappear behind the line of trees at the top of the riverbank.
We also found an excellent use for Michael’s suit jacket, as it is now propped beneath my head, doubling as a very comfortable makeshift pillow.
My blood alcohol level isn’t even high enough to leave me buzzed, and yet, I find myself more relaxed than I’ve felt since arriving in town.
So much so that I’m lying across the stone bench in the alcove, my legs draped over Michael’s lap as he sits at the other end.
It may not seem like a big deal, but there’s something a little too intimate about it that I usually wouldn’t go for.
Thankfully, the shrew is on vacation in Dullardsville, leaving me to relish in the sensation of calloused hands brushing my calves every so often.
And my god, it feels so good to just laugh, to just be here and sit and not worry.
“Who’s your favorite literary character?” I ask. Yes, I know the topic isn’t exactly tantalizing, but given his tattoo, it’s still a solid question. Not to mention, I don’t trust my loosening lips enough to think on the matter. Asking what his favorite sex position is doesn’t sound appropriate.
“Edmond Dantès.”
I find myself grinning, because he can’t be serious. Or rather, he can’t be real . Not only is The Count of Monte Cristo one of my favorite books, but I haven’t met anyone who’s actually read the novel rather than the cliff notes. “A man of justice and revenge, I see. I can appreciate that.”
“Consensus bias?” Michael teases.
“More like wish fulfillment. Even if I could plan such a scheme, I lack the necessary followthrough.”
Michael smirks, the tip of his lips all too mischievous. “Are you in need of avenging?”
“That I am, but my enemies aren’t the kinds of people you want to mess with,” I admit, though I try to inset some brevity to my voice. “All I can hope is that God really will give me justice, because if He does, there’s a few stray lightning bolts with certain names of them.”
I shake my head, as if I can brush off the conversation. It’s the last place I want my mind venturing, especially as my gaze involuntarily shifts northward up the river. “Best kiss?”
“You.”
“What?” It takes longer than it should for my brain to process the remark, because when I look back at him, Michael can’t seem to fight the grin pulling at his lips. I return the look with a playful shove from my foot. “Presumptuous, are we?”
He all-out smiles. “No.”
“So, you’re saying you don’t want to kiss me?”
“No.” Michael punctuates this with his own gaze fixed on my mouth. “What about you?”
I have to mull it over for a moment before finally admitting, “I don’t really have one.”
Sure, I’ve had some good kisses, but they weren’t anything to write home about. And the two I loved were ruined by hindsight.
It’s kind of sad, actually.
And because my mental filter has abandoned me, I even blurt that out as well.
Something in Michael’s expression changes. For a second, I think he’s going to call bullshit on me, but the curve of his lips turns into something more mischievous. “What would a guy have to do to give you the perfect kiss?”
“Catch me by surprise, probably.” It was the one thing that stuck out like a sore thumb when comparing my later-ruined kiss to the others.
Everybody else had announced their intentions or asked permission to kiss me, which is always fine, except they all handled it awkwardly.
That long, uncomfortable beat as I waited for them to follow through just took the steam out of it.
When I admit as much, Michael shakes his head, that silken voice only lowering further.
“Then they didn’t know what the fuck they were doing.
” His fingers glide up my calf, slow and steady, until they reach my knee, slipping behind it to brush featherlight strokes.
“It’s the anticipation that can make it so damn satisfying.
‘Will they?’ ‘Won’t they?’ ‘How?’ ‘When?’”
Goosebumps rise despite the humid air clinging to my skin, and I can’t help but bite my bottom lip at the ache that’s suddenly building just a little north of his hand.
To my dismay and disappointment, his movements slow until stopping altogether at the base of my thighs. “Your turn to ask a question.”
Huh?
It takes a painfully long moment for my brain to comprehend what he’s saying, and the sheer frustration that he isn’t going to make good on his insinuation has me glowering at him. Well, that and the fact he’s smirking, clearly sensing said frustration.
Tease.
I school my expression into something more casual, refusing to give him the satisfaction.
That’s right, asshat. Your touch has zero effect on me.
I feign an air of indifference, stretching languidly across the bench.
The act sends my spine arching, pushing my breasts up and out as I raise my arms over my head.
As far as he’s concerned, I’m as cool as a cucumber and nimble as a cat.
Never mind that my stretching has inadvertently left his hand sliding higher up my thigh.
Still, I close my eyes and sigh, like it’s no big deal that a hot stranger has his hand skimming mere inches from you-know-where.
As casually as I can manage, I ask, “Favorite curse word?”
To my surprise (and further disappointment), Michael lifts my legs off his lap just high enough that he can stand up, forcing me to lay my calves back down on the bench, its stone still warm from his body. “Easy. Fuck .”
I crack open an eye to look at him, and sweet mother of God, no man has the right to look so utterly gorgeous and predatory all at once. His expression is enough to sear my skin as those eyes roam over every inch of me. I try to sound unaffected, but my voice comes out far too breathy. “Why?”
“It offers the most variety. ‘Fuck off,’ ‘fucking amazing,’ and ‘fuck, that feels good.’” His pitch changes with each sentiment, going from angry to delighted to a panty-dropping growl that has my thighs wanting to clench.
I find that impossible, however, since he emphasizes the last point by positioning one of his knees right between my thighs.
Michael damn near prowls over my body as he braces himself with his hands on either side of me.
His breath dances over my lips, his face mere inches from mine. “Allow me to prove you wrong.”
The words are barely more than a whisper, and my eyes close on instinct, awaiting the feel of more than his breath…
But it doesn’t come. It takes a moment to process his comment, not to mention what he’s doing.
The bastard.
I open my eyes again to find that cocky grin looming above me so close I could eliminate the distance between us with no more than an arch of my neck. But I won’t give him the satisfaction. If he wants to make a point at my expense, the man better be ready to deliver.
And he’s more than willing.
He parts his lips, but they aren’t what connect with mine.
His teeth scrape ever so gently over my bottom lip, and when he releases it, his breath dances down to my chin, my throat, my collarbone.
And he’s right. There’s nothing more beautiful than hearing that certain expletive breathed against my skin as he practically purrs, “Fucking perfection.”
I’m not exactly well-endowed in the breast department, but feeling his teeth graze along the top of my cleavage, feeling him palm me over the material of my dress, you would think he never beheld anything so glorious in his life.
There’s both appreciation and frustration in his expression.
The latter is hardly a surprise, not when the confines of my corset place a heavy layer between us that can’t be removed without stripping me down in the process.
That doesn’t deter his mouth. It moves between breasts, and goddamn him. Goddamn him and his knee. His teeth test the sensitivity of my flesh, and all the while, his lips barely brush my skin at all…
It’s utter madness.
Again, I want to clench my thighs, that want building into a need, but I still can’t. Not with his leg positioned between them. It only makes the ache building there that much more unbearable.
And he knows it. I don’t even need to look down at him to confirm he’s grinning.
I can feel it in those featherlight kisses he trails up from my breasts to my throat again.
I can’t control the shiver that racks my body.
I’m definitely a “neck” kind of girl, and having those delicious lips settle in my favorite spot just below my ear has every cell in my body begging for more.
I should (or at least normally would) be embarrassed by the moan that slips out of me, but I’m not the only one affected.
With Michael pretty much lying over me, I can feel the hardened length of him brushing my thigh.