Page 36 of Don’t Go Breaking My Heart (Houston Baddies #3)

poppy

. . .

I stare at Turner, who’s about to pull a T-shirt over his head.

“Are you actually getting dressed?”

“We said we were going to behave,” he whispers gruffly, the hem halfway over his abs.

I laugh. “ Who said that? Not me.”

He takes one step closer to the bed, shirt dangling from his fingers. “You’re going to get us caught.”

“How?” I whisper back. “I can be quiet.” I lock my lips and throw away the key. “See?”

“You can be quiet,” he allows. “But I’ve also heard the volume of your moaning.”

Ahh—the moaning.

The yummy, delicious moaning.

If his dick wasn’t so stellar, the sounds would be less of an issue.

I raise my eyebrows, challenging. “Fine. Wanna make it interesting?”

I love a good challenge.

Turner eyes me warily. “Define interesting .”

“The Silent Game.” I explain my impromptu, totally made-up game. “No noise. No moaning. No talking. First one to make a sound, loses a point. First one to have Georgia knock on the door loses.”

He stares at me like I just proposed competitive arson. “You want to play a game, while we’re naked in bed,” he deadpans.

I nod, smug. “Yesss.”

“You’re going to lose.” He tosses the shirt to the floor and climbs onto the bed in one fluid, predatory motion. “Ground rules?”

“Rule one: no speaking. Not even whispering dirty shit in my ear, which, I’ll admit, is your superpower.”

He is so good at talking dirty, I’m getting wet just thinking about it…

I sit up straighter, businesslike. “Rule two: no random sounds on purpose. No moaning, no sighing, no gasping, no tiny little breathy ‘oh’s’ that you do when I—well, you know.”

He blinks. “I’ve never fucking did anything with a breathy little ‘oh’—that’s you.” He laughs . “You sound like a virgin in a romance who’s shocked to see an ankle for the first time.”

My mouth gapes. “Was that an insult?”

Turner laughs. “No, I’m stating facts.”

“What about accidental sounds? Like sneezes? Or, I don’t know, a noise of surprise if someone were to—hypothetically—bite someone’s inner thigh?”

He narrows his eyes. “Suffer in silence like the rest of us. Rule three: if Georgia knocks on the door, the instigator loses. Immediately. No trial, no appeal.”

I gasp. “That’s not fair! What if she knocks just to be annoying?”

Because that’s what little sisters do—even if she’s not mine.

“She won’t,” he says with all the delusion of a man who knows nothing about women. “She’s probably asleep.”

Turner’s shrug says ‘ not my problem .’ “We’ve already laid the groundwork. Three rules. Zero mercy. High risk. High reward.”

“And nudity,” I add. “Essential to the integrity of the game.”

“Obviously.”

We shake on it, completely serious despite the fact that we are both 100% naked and not pretending to be professional about it.

He lifts the covers, and we both slide into bed like this is some sort of gentleman’s duel instead of what it actually is: a very sexy mistake wearing the disguise of a competition.

Turner lies flat on his back, arms behind his head, smug as hell as my eyes slide down his torso.

Yum.

“Just so you know,” he brags, “I’ve never lost a game.”

He is so full of shit. Of course he’s lost games.

I roll to my side, facing him. “That’s because you’ve never played against someone with no shame and a very flexible sense of sportsmanship.”

“I don’t trust that sentence at all.”

“You shouldn’t.”

The room goes quiet.

GAME. ON.

I shift under the sheets, subtly letting my leg brush against his.

Nothing. Not even a flinch.

Okay.

We’re doing this.

I reach over and trail one fingertip along his rib cage, featherlight, pretending to adjust the blanket.

Still nothing—dammit!

But he inhales sharply.

I smirk. Weakness.

Excellent, EXCELLENT…!

He turns his head, meets my eyes, and raises one slow eyebrow like a villain in a spy movie. Then he moves—rolling toward me, one arm sliding beneath my neck, his body pressing close enough for full contact, and I immediately forget how to breathe.

Still, I say nothing.

He mouths, Your turn.

Oh. It’s like that?

I lean in, lips brushing his jaw, my hand slipping under the sheet and landing low on his stomach. Lower.

His jaw tenses.

I grin. Victory pending.

Then. Just as I’m mentally composing my acceptance speech, Turner strikes.

One hand slips behind my knee and hooks it over his hip— rude —bringing our bodies into full contact. My leg wraps around him because, well, survival instincts.

His fingers skim up my spine, deliberately slow. He doesn’t stop until his palm settles between my shoulder blades, holding me there like he knows I’m seconds from combusting.

And then—THEN—he dips his head and kisses the hollow of my throat.

Silently. Softly.

Lethally.

I reach down without breaking eye contact and wrap my hand around him, slow and steady like I’m holding the final Uno card.

Turner freezes. Eyes wide. Mouth opens.

No sound.

Barely.

I stroke…up…down…up…down…

My fingers tickle his balls as his head hits the pillow, chest moving up and down, breathing labored, abs flexing under every breath as he fights the inevitable.

When he goes rock hard, I lower my head, taking him inside my mouth and sucking… sucking… bobbing my head up and down, as I’ve seen in videos, enthusiastically blowing his cock as if I were being paid for the service.

As if I were waiting for him to break.

Make a noise.

Make. A. Noise.

The silence is just as sexy though, and the determination makes me hotter. The determination to make him crack spurs me on.

Because every ragged breath Turner takes—every muscle that tightens, every flicker of his jaw—is him fighting the urge to lose control.

And I love it.

The tension.

The restraint.

The way he grips the sheets like it’s the only thing keeping him from completely falling apart under my touch.

His hips shift, just slightly. Not enough to break the rules. But enough to say please without using a single word.

I glance up.

He’s flushed. Eyelids heavy. Neck tense like he’s seconds from breaking and trying so hard not to.

The determination in his silence makes my blood roar.

Makes my vagina clench.

Wanton.

Wet.

More, more, more …