Good Girl Page 27

I slip my arms into the shirt and am preparing to pull it over my head when he stops me with a rough “Don’t.”

I lift my eyebrows in challenge, and he lifts his right back. A counterchallenge. “Touch me, princess.”

My stomach falls again, this time with anticipation.

“Yeah?” I ask.

“Put your hands on me.”

It’s as much of an admission as I’m going to get from him, and it’s enough. I set one knee on the bed, then another, kneeling beside him instead of straddling him as I reach for him.

Honestly? I haven’t done this a lot. I mean, I’ve touched guys a couple of times, but it’s usually been just a few quick shy touches as part of rushed foreplay.

This is different.

I turn toward the lamp, thinking to turn it off, but he shakes his head. “I want to watch you.”

Well. Crap.

Better make it good, then.

I stroke him slowly, learning the feel of him, velvety soft skin over steel, my thumb brushing over the top of moisture on the tip, spreading it around and smiling slightly when he moans.

Over and over I stroke him, learning that he likes it best when my touch is firm. The quickening in his breathing tells me he likes it when I lean over him, giving him a view of my cleavage.

My grand plan was an epic hand job. An even exchange for last night.

But having him completely at my mercy, hearing him unravel under my touch, makes me bold.

I bend forward even farther until my lips hover just over him. Almost touching, but not quite.

“Jenny.” His hips buck, but I pull back.

“Yes?” I ask, turning my head to meet his eyes.

He shakes his head. “You don’t have to—”

“I can stop if you like.” I dip my head lower so my lips brush over his tip.

His eyes are closed now, his chest rising and falling, and I know I’ve won.

I take him in my mouth and he rears off the bed with a stream of profanity.

Here’s another thing I’ve never considered myself particularly skilled at. An awkward thing, the blow job.

But it doesn’t feel awkward with Noah. I feel sexy as hell bent over him, my lips wrapped around him. I even arch my lower back a little, knowing from his groan that he’s enjoying the visual as much as I’m enjoying his taste.

“Fuck,” he says, his hips moving faster to meet my mouth, his feet digging into the mattress as he strains to get closer. “Jenny, you need to stop. Now.”

I don’t stop.

Instead I wrap one hand around the base of him, pumping as my tongue swirls under the underside before I tighten the suction.

I’ve never felt quite so powerful and wanton as I do the moment Noah Maxwell comes in my mouth with an animalistic roar.

I stay with him through every shudder, relishing every oath before slowly easing back. I dab lightly at the corner of my mouth with my middle finger as I watch him with hungry, curious eyes.

His breath rises and falls, his closed eyes showing off those ridiculously curly eyelashes to perfection.

When he finally opens them to meet my gaze, they’re unreadable.

I give him a nervous smile as I glance up at the zip ties. “I, uh, didn’t quite think through this part,” I say. “Are those things easy to remove?”

He lets out a little laugh and shakes his head. “Unbelievable.”

“Either you can tell me what to do or I can leave you like this.”

“Drawer to the right of the sink. There’s some kitchen shears that should do the trick.”

A few moments later I cut the zip ties free, wincing as I see him rub lightly at the red lines around his wrist. “Do they hurt?”

He meets my eyes. “Worth it.”

I turn away in embarrassment. I wasn’t kidding when I said I hadn’t thought through what would come after, and I have no idea how to make a graceful yet saucy exit.

I retrieve my tank top once more as he pulls up his boxers and pants. I hurriedly pull on the shirt before giving him a wide grin. “So. We’re even, then.”

His hand flexes as though he wants to reach for me, but he doesn’t. “Princess…”

I shake my head and back up. “No words necessary, Noah. I’d say we both got what we wanted. Maybe now this…thing between us will ease and we can go back to ignoring each other.”

He says nothing as I bend down to pick up my bag, and as an afterthought I pull out the bag of pink zip ties and toss them at him, since I’d bought two bags. Because you never know. “Here. A souvenir.”

“At least let me walk you home.”

“I’m good. Really.”


“I want to be alone. Please.”

I bend to pet Ranger as I leave, his tail thumping happily against the wood floor, never pausing in chewing his bone (one of my more brilliant ideas, if I do say so myself).

I let myself out, stopping to pick up the big-ass gator stick as I make the trek back toward the main house.

About two minutes in, I hear a twig snap behind me, and I tense, my grip adjusting on the stick, but then I hear a low, quiet whistling, something low and mellow and masculine.

I smile, realizing it’s Noah letting me know that it’s him, and that he’s found a way to walk me home and still give me my space.

I don’t turn back to acknowledge his presence until I get back to the house, where I pause on the back porch and turn toward him.

He’s there in the shadows, hands in his pockets.

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