The Playboy Bachelor

  “My friend.” She swallowed convulsively, her eyes squinting as she sucked in a breath.

  “My version of friendship involves multiple orgasms,” he said seriously.

  Margot’s lips twitched as tears stained her cheeks.

  “Let me in,” he begged. “Let me see all of you, too.”

  “I can’t,” she whispered, lip trembling.

  He pulled her into his arms, and their foreheads touched. “Live dangerously.”

  Margot’s green eyes searched his as a panicked expression crossed her features. “What if all I want is sex?”

  It felt like he’d just been punched in the stomach.

  Two weeks ago, he would have offered a smug grin and ripped the towel away from her body. He would have thanked the sex gods for a woman who didn’t want commitment and worshipped her with adoration.

  And now?

  He just felt sick.

  “What if I want more?” he whispered, eyes searching hers for the smallest sign that there was more than just a physical attraction.

  “Then I say no.” She swallowed and looked away.

  “Okay.” He lied. To her. To himself. “Just sex.” Because he knew with Margot it was going to be more, and he was going to regret it, regret allowing her in when she kept him at a distance. But even as his brain screamed at him to stop and think, his hands continued to move until he grasped the edge of her towel with his fingertips and slowly freed it from her body.

  Body shaking, she quickly covered her breasts.

  He moved her hands away, replaced them with his own. “You said just sex.”

  Frowning, she gave her head a shake. “I know, but—”

  “Sex involves being naked.” Her breasts were heavy in his hands.

  Her breath came out in a whoosh, and then Margot’s entire face transformed in a smile as she whispered, “That feels good.”

  “I aim to please.”

  Her lips parted and he captured them in a searing kiss.

  “Just friends, right?” Margot gasped, as he rained more kisses down her neck.

  “Sure.” His mouth whispered against her skin. “Just friends.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Bentley’s eyes traveled over her naked, trembling body. He gripped her face with one hand and pressed a heated kiss to her mouth followed by another and another across her eyelids. Then with an aching slowness, like the world had been put on pause, he knelt in front of her and kissed her scars.

  Tears clogged in her throat.

  A week ago, she would have been horrified, angry, embarrassed. She still felt some of the anger boiling at the surface, the intense need to shove him away and make a run for it out of the sheer terror that he was going to finally realize how broken she was.

  But instead, she gripped his shoulders and kept her eyes closed as his lips moved across the marred skin.

  Bentley Wellington was kissing her ugly.

  The worst and most deformed part of her.

  The part even she had trouble looking at—and his lips were tender, coaxing.

  “You’re beautiful,” he whispered against her wet skin. “So beautiful.”

  He stood abruptly and picked her up in his arms, carrying her over to the bed before he opened the curtains even wider.

  “What are you doing?” she asked while he went to the door and locked it.

  ”I’ll be damned if I’m going to miss any inch of you because you have a tendency to live in a cave.”

  “Oh.” Heat flooded her body.

  He licked his lips and then she blurted, “I haven’t—”

  “What?” He cupped her breasts again and she was shocked to hear herself moan a little. His hands felt amazing, rough, against her soft skin.

  “I’m…” What was she saying, again? His palms slid down her ribs and she released a little cry before she found words again. “I don’t do this.”

  “I would hope not.” His hands moved to her hips.

  And that was when she panicked.

  “I write about sex.”

  “I know.”

  “I don’t exactly…have it.”

  He stopped kissing her. “Have what?”

  “It.”

  Bentley frowned.

  “Sex!” Her cheeks burned.

  His hands froze on her hips. “I’m sorry. Are you saying you write about dirty sex but you’ve never had it?”

  Oh God. Embarrassment washed over her. She tried to reach for the covers, but he pinned her hands down at her sides.

  “Margot?”

  “Yes,” she squeaked out.

  You’d think she’d just given Bentley a gold medal in the Olympics. “I think…” His grin grew. “This may go down as the best day of my life.”

  “Huh?” His fingers dug into her arms, and it felt good.

  “First, you have nobody to compare me to, so that takes all the pressure off. Second,” he said as he tapped her nose with his finger, “I get to go painfully slow and most women just want to be f—” He coughed. “Most women I’m with want—” He shook his head. “You know what?” He stood and marched over to her computer. “We’re going to act one out.”

  Margot’s jaw dropped. “Act what out?”

  He turned toward her with a grin that had her thighs clenching and her heart slamming against her chest. “A scene, Miss Romance Writer.”

  “Oh no no no no no, that’s a horrible idea!” She covered her breasts with her hands and then realized she’d just left herself even more naked, and she slid her right hand down to cover herself up.

  Bentley peeked at her over his shoulder and let out a groan. “Touch yourself and it’s going to be game over.”

  “I’m covering myself.”

  “I really wish you wouldn’t cover my second and third favorite parts of you.”

  She moved her hands and leaned up on her elbows, her mind a blur of questions. “What’s the first part?”

  “Your leg.” When she flinched, he added, “The one that has the pretty scars.”

  And in that moment, Margot fell not just a little in love with Bentley Wellington but a lot, more than she knew what to do with as her throat went dry.

  His favorite part of her—was her least favorite part of herself. How did that work? The part he wanted to kiss and see the most was the part that held her shame, her regrets, her mistakes.

  “This one!” Bentley said, triumphantly waving her last novel in the air.

  “How did you find one so fast?” She cleared the tears from her throat.

  “Easy.” He shrugged. “I just grabbed one of the millions of books on your bookcase with naked chesty men and looked for the word cock. Imagine my surprise when I saw it at least twelve times in the first chapter. Dirty girl.” He winked.

  Margot gasped. “There’s no way I used cock that many times.”

  “And yet”—he sauntered lazily toward her, lifting his shirt over his head—“you did.”

  “I—” She gulped. Why did he have to be so fit? So distractingly beautiful that she wasn’t sure if she should stare or talk or kiss him or—

  “The duke takes the servant girl two ways.”

  “I’m blushing, aren’t I?” she murmured, covering her burning face with her hands.

  The bed dipped under Bentley’s weight as he whispered in her ear, “You match your hair.”

  She shivered.

  He placed a kiss on her shoulder. “I promise I’ll take care of you.”

  Slowly she pulled her hands away from her face. “I know.”

  But how was she supposed to take care of him? It wasn’t the same as writing out a scene, where she could pause, delete, rewrite.

  This was real life.

  All thoughts of what was about to happen rushed to the surface of her mind as Bentley took greedy possession of her mouth.

  His hands roamed all over her body, from her breasts to the ache between her thighs.

  As her legs entangled with his, she could feel how turned on he wa
s, and a small part of her wanted to cheer. At least her leg hadn’t disgusted him so much he wasn’t even able to get aroused around her.

  “The duke seduces her slowly.” Bentley spoke softly, sliding his hand down her side. She sucked in a breath when his fingers danced along her hipbone, and he gave her a teasing smile. “I think you’ll like this slow.”

  She gulped.

  And tried to calm down as he moved his hand along the curve of her ass and then moved lower on the bed, tilting her hips up to him.

  Crap. She couldn’t remember the scene!

  What did the duke do?

  He breathed against the innermost part of her thigh.

  Oh, hell.

  She knew exactly what the duke did.

  After all, he was a rake, he didn’t play by the rules; he was—“Bentley!”

  “Red?” He whispered her name, following it with his tongue like he was sealing it inside her.

  She tried clamping her legs together, but he made a groan of pleasure and she dug her hands into his shoulders and then finally allowed herself to relax and get lost in the feeling of his mouth on her.

  She’d always been in control with her stories, her characters, and now? It was like she’d just given Bentley free rein of the pen.

  And her words.

  Her fantasies.

  It was exhilarating.

  It was terrifying.

  “Come on, Red,” Bentley coaxed, then sucked again.

  She panted out his name as he licked.

  “Where’s my loud sigh?” he asked. Then he replaced his mouth with his hands and sent a shock of pleasure through her that had her legs shaking. “I need to try harder,” he added. She was still riding a cloud of bliss when he palmed her and then held her good leg over his shoulder.

  And then, Bentley Wellington drank her.

  With a scream she reached for him.

  He evaded her reach.

  And kept his torturous mouth in place.

  “That’s better.” He chuckled darkly, heat and power radiating from him. “I think the duke gave her two orgasms this way. Should we try for three? I don’t like the idea of some old British guy doing better.” And then his head was gone again.

  “Bentley!” She said his name like a curse. “I can’t think straight.”

  “You shouldn’t be thinking at all. If you’re thinking, I’m doing a shit job.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Bentley was hanging on by a thread. He wasn’t used to being patient. He also wasn’t used to doing much work—which really didn’t speak highly of the type of guy he’d turned into. One who gave women direction and expected them to suck him off and say Thank you afterward, like he’d done them a favor.

  He sucked in a greedy breath as his eyes feasted on Margot’s naked body. Her chest rose and fell as her gaze locked on his stomach and then drifted lower. Her lips pressed together and then parted.

  Bentley could have stared at her all day.

  The way she watched him wasn’t just with curiosity—it was straight-up lust mixed in with something else he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

  Maybe because most women wanted only one thing.

  But Margot? She was the type of girl who unapologetically asked for it all, and refused to give back the pieces.

  Tamping down the intense need to claim her, Bentley moved to the bed and loomed over her. His lips grazed the soft skin below her belly button, then moved up her body until he fused his mouth with hers. Her hips were made for him, her curves; every inch of her body pressed against his was perfection. He wanted sex, no doubt about it, but sex with her? He imagined it would wreck him in the best way.

  Sex with her more than once.

  Would probably destroy them both.

  Then again, he’d never been the type to play it safe.

  He gripped her hips and pulled her to a sitting position. “I’m going to do a rewrite.”

  “What makes you think you’re good enough to write a scene?”

  “I should probably show you.” He drew out a languid kiss from her and then parted her legs with his knee. Then, as if he didn’t like that angle enough, he gripped her by the ass and pulled her onto his lap, leaning back so that she was straddling him.

  Margot let out a breathy sigh as he guided her into a slow rhythm. Every sliding thrust brought him closer to the brink—he’d always had trouble keeping himself from getting it over with, finishing, and leaving the woman pissed that he didn’t spend time worshipping her form head to toe. With Margot? He wanted to lick every inch, explore every crevice, build a shrine to everything he saw.

  Bentley kissed her nose. “Are you doing okay?”

  She looked shocked that he cared.

  “Y-yes.” Margot tangled her hands behind his head. “But…”

  “But?” His stomach dropped. Was she not enjoying this as much as he was?

  “I hate the rewrite.” She grinned, then captured his lips with hers.

  Her kiss was the knife that cut the thread he’d been hanging from. With a growl, he picked her up off his lap and pressed a feverish kiss to her mouth as he slowly ran his hand down her hip. Then somehow he managed to get her onto her back as he plunged into her again, deeper, harder, faster than he’d intended.

  A sense of crazed urgency took over. He couldn’t stop, he didn’t want to stop, he wanted more of her, he wanted to feel her every day just like this.

  Margot squeezed her eyes shut. “This. This isn’t. This is better. I must write horrible sex scenes if this is what it’s really like. This—”

  “Was that a good this or a bad this?” When had Bentley ever worked so hard to please a woman in bed? Sweat collected on his skin and hers.

  “Good this.” She pressed a hand against his chest. “Kiss me again.”

  Her full lips trembled beneath his as he rocked into her, their bodies moving together perfectly—her shallow breaths had him clenching his teeth and praying for control.

  And then her body clenched around him.

  And he lost his damn mind.

  He didn’t even realize he was yelling her name until it was over.

  He ignored the fact that his body felt like he’d just participated in a marathon, and the funny feeling in his chest when she found her release and cried out his name.

  He ignored it all.

  Because he knew it wasn’t normal.

  Not any of it.

  Having sex had never been like this for him.

  “I thought,” she panted, “you were over the screaming and wanted panting and deep sighs?”

  “Clearly I was mistaken,” he joked, still looming over her, his large body pressed against hers in a comfortable way that made him want to stay put for a little longer. “How do you feel?” And why did that question make him feel like he was a virgin asking if he’d performed okay?

  “I feel like I want my own duke,” she said in a deadpan voice.

  “I used to do theatre.”

  “Liar.”

  “Okay, so I thought about doing theatre, but give me a few minutes and I’ll sew a costume.”

  “You sew?”

  “No.” He grinned. “But how hard can it be?”

  She sobered, and averted her eyes. “Bentley?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thank you.”

  A grin tugged the corners of his mouth. “For?”

  Margot’s face turned bright red. “Thank you for…that.”

  “You know, for a dirty author you don’t really say the sexy words very well, do you?”

  “It’s easier to write them.”

  “I’ll let you in on a little secret…” His lips grazed her ear. “It’s better to act them out.”

  “I know.” She let out a happy sigh. “So, how many times did I say cock again?”

  “Hundreds. Why? What’s going on in that pretty little head of yours?”

  “Nothing,” she said quickly. “And yet so many things. Our friendship. This. Hell, I just said
this again. What does it mean? Can we do it again? Why the hell am I suddenly obsessed with the duke’s cock? I just thought—”

  “Relax.” He pulled away from her. “I was thinking the same thing.”

  “You were?” She perked up.

  “Absolutely.” He nodded seriously. “Act out the scenes, make sure that they’re physically possible. Take one for the team. Delete all the crazy duke references. And replace them with Bentley.”

  “Oh, sorry, I meant, I should probably go through and delete half the cocks.” A taunting smile followed.

  “That sounds painful. I’m oddly offended.”

  “It’s not your cock,” she pointed out.

  “You’d be sad if you deleted my cock, admit it.”

  She giggled and then burst out laughing. God, he loved her laugh. “I’m not sure who would be more sad, me or you.”

  “Very funny.” He grabbed her by the arms and then straddled her again.

  “You know…” She trailed a finger down his chest, and he sucked in a breath. “You lived up to the hype.”

  It was like getting punched in the face.

  Was that all this was to her?

  She was trying him out for her stories? For the hype? Seriously?

  He recoiled and masked his expression, and then Bentley Wellington defaulted into what was familiar, into what he knew best. He pasted a fake smile on his face and shrugged. “There’s more where that came from.” His words sounded normal, clear, teasing, nonchalant, but his heart cracked a bit.

  Because it was the first time he’d actually had an emotional connection during sex.

  Only to wonder if it was completely one-sided, and then left in the dark as to what to do next.

  Was it sex? Or more?

  And suddenly, he transformed into every single chick he’d ever screwed, wondering, overanalyzing.