Page 102 of Revenge Puck
He shifts in his seat. “No.”
“Then I’m comfortable being on your side because you didn’t deserve the lies.”
His thumb moves slightly against my knuckles.
“Nope,” he agrees. “But we don’t have to keep unpacking my baggage on our date night.”
Date night.
I roll the words around in my head, letting them settle warmly in the pit of my stomach. Shove whatever tiny doubts I had to the back of my mind, intent on comforting him.
And then?—
He stands.
No warning. No dramatic pause.
One second, I’m perched on a stool. The next, his hands are on my waist, and I’m airborne.
“Aaron!” I squeak.
He lifts me like I weigh nothing and sets me on the counter with a solid thump. Not rough. But not gentle.
Confident—like a caveman.
He nudges my knees apart and steps between my thighs.
“Oh my god.” I breathe. “Was all that necessary?”
“Very.”
His gaze drops to the front of my shirt.
“Did you wear this on purpose?” he asks quietly, nimble fingers sliding the first button open.
My breath catches.
He doesn’t look at my face. Not yet. His eyes stay trained on his hands as they work down the line of my buttons, one, then another.
Then another…
The sound of crisp material is the only noise in his quiet kitchen, cool air brushing my skin as the shirt parts, exposing the lacey bra beneath as his fingers slide open the fabric, skimming the warm line of my waist.
The rough pads of his fingers touch my stomach…trace upward…following the curve of my ribs until they brush the edge of my bra.
Delicate lace meets his hungry gaze.
“Juliette, look at me,” he murmurs.
I do.
I am.
He pushes the shirt off my shoulders slowly so it slides down my arms, pooling at my elbows. I shiver, the air cool against my bare flesh, though my body is warm where Aaron presses between my thighs.
His large palm rises again, cupping the side of my breast through the lace. Thumb dragging lazily across the lace, the whisper of pressure deliberate and unhurried. The thin material offers no protection; it only heightens every sensation.
A slow circle.
