Page 19 of 10 Things I Skate About You

My body knows before my brain does that this someone is Adam “The Brooding Buckaroo” Foley. I don’t even try to scream because his lips crash against mine. His calloused fingertips are touching my face. They’re in my hair. They’re dragging down theside of my neck. They’re grabbing my hips and pulling me into him.

“What the hell are you doing?” I mutter into his mouth. My left hand asks another question of his left ass cheek, and that question isHOLY SHIT HOW MANY SQUATS DO YOU DO IN A WEEK?!“I’m leaving,” I tell him. “Where are we?”

“Supply closet,” he whispers into my ear. “Nobody ever comes in here during the dinner rush, but you have to be quiet.”

“I don’t have to do anything in the supply closet with you,” I hiss.Except get my hand under your sweater so I can touch your abs real quick.“God dammit, how are you this ripped?”

His lips press against the skin just below my ear, and oh my God, what just happened? I think I just got electrocuted. In my lower abdomen. He kisses my neck, and I have no idea why it feels so good. Maybe if we stay in the dark and he doesn’t talk I can just pretend he’s someone else. But who?

Because the only man I’ve seen when I’ve closed my eyes for years is Adam “Get Out of My Head” Foley.

“Let me make you come,” he says. His hands follow the curves of my hips, up my waist, and he maneuvers my arms up over my head as he presses the hardening length in his pants against me.

“What? No way. How? When?”

He finds the leather pocket organizer I’m still gripping in my right hand and takes it from me. “Right now.” His breath is hot against the side of my face. “Right here. I’m putting this thing in my back pocket so you don’t lose it.”

That is annoyingly thoughtful of him. “Pah!” I step my feet apart and squeeze my legs around one of his thighs, grinding down on him. It’s his right leg. The good knee. “That’s not happening.”

His lips find mine again, and this time I part my mouth for his tongue. I suck on his tongue, swallow his groan, and then bitehis lower lip. “Ow. I could do it in the back seat of my truck if you’d like, milady, but this is a little more private.”

“I’m not fucking you in a restaurant closet, Foley.”

His hands are on my ass now, and dear lord, the man knows how to squeeze an ass. “Nobody said anything about fucking you, darlin’. Clothes stay on. My very hard dick stays in my pants. All I need is three fingers and the palm of one hand to get you where you need to go. Where you deserve to go. I’ll only use my mouth to talk you through it. Quietly.”

His thumb keeps brushing across my nipple over the sweater, and oh God, the way he’s caressing my boob. I like it. My boob likes it. I hate that we can’t hide how much we like it. “Talk me through what exactly?”

“The orgasm I’m going to give you,” he says slowly. “Your first with a man.” I didn’t realize my ear bone was connected to my vagina bone, but hearing what he did with his voice just caused a series of very pleasant muscle spasms down there.

“I could make myself come by riding your leg for another thirty seconds, and that would bemegivingmyselfan orgasm.”

“If that’s what you want, you go ahead and ride ’em cowgirl. I’ll hold still.”

I find his hands and move them both back up to my tits because they are so full right now and I need him to massage them vigorously, and he does. He does exactly what I need him to do without me telling him to, and that is infuriating. “I’m not going to let you win, Foley,” I grumble, but a moan slips out and I am so mad at that moan.

“What? Seriously? You don’t think you’ll be the winner if I make you come in this closet?” He squeezes my tits, groaning. I squeeze both of his butt cheeks like I’m testing the inflation levels of two Pilates balls. “You are fucking insane. I could have made you come by now, and we’d be back at the table enjoying our steaks.”

“You do not get bragging rights.”

He pinches my nipple, and I want to slap him because it’s fucking amazing. “You ever heard about the women I’ve made come in this town, Red?”

“No, because they don’t exist.” I am so close to coming just from humping his quads, I let out a little yelp.

One of his hands leaves my breast to cover my mouth.

“Is it really easier for you to believe that than to believe I’m a gentleman?”

“Yes,” I say into the palm of his hand.

“Will you please let me finger-fuck you so I can feel how wet you are right now, baby? I’m really dyin’ here.”

I want to scream. Not because I’m coming, because I can’t believe I’m going to let Adam “The Stetson Sourpuss” Foley finger-fuck me in a steakhouse closet on Valentine’s Day. I inhale deeply and nod.

“That’s my girl,” he says as he reaches under my sweater dress.

I bite the palm of his hand. I am not his girl. He doesn’t even flinch.

But he does make the sexiest, deep, throaty sound when he slips his hand inside my cotton panties. It is humiliating that he knows how wet I am. “Fuckme, Pogue.”