Page 68 of Pregnant By the Playboy

He steps even closer, until we’re toe-to-toe. He brushes his hand over my hip, and I gasp.

“You want to know what I do when I’m alone?” he asks.

I’m already developing a picture in my mind, without him saying anything.

“Sometimes when I’m in the shower,” he says. “Sometimes when I’m in bed. I grasp my cock...you miss doing that, don’t you?”

“Yes,” I groan before I can help myself. We only had one weekend together in bed, but I miss doing that. So much.

The corner of his mouth quirks up. I want to wipe that stupid smile away by pushing him down between my legs and telling him to lick me, like he did at the party.

But I don’t.

“And I think of you, Marissa,” he says. “It’s always you. Your wet heat surrounding me. Your fingernails scratching my back so hard they leave marks.”

I cross my arms over my chest. “I did not do that.”

I try to sound firm, but perhaps he’s telling the truth. I can’t be sure, not when my mind is turning to mush and that giant SEX! sign seems even bigger than before.

“And I jack myself off,” he continues. “Way more than usual. Because I can’t stop thinking of being with you again.”

“How interesting,” I murmur, managing to channel his calmness.

“Very interesting, I agree.” He waits a beat. “Are you sure you’d like to head to dinner now?”

“Yes.”

See? I have self-control.

“As you wish,” he says, stepping out of my personal space.

“Where are we going? A sausage factory?”

He barks out a laugh.

This time, he doesn’t take me out for drinks beforehand, and the Middle Eastern restaurant is only a short distance away. We order muhammara for our appetizer, and we both get lamb kebabs for our main. There are, indeed, sausages on the menu, but I refuse to make a comment about it.

When the muhammara arrives, I immediately break off a piece of pita and swipe it through the dip. Roasted red pepper, walnut, and pomegranate molasses. It’s delicious and has the perfect hint of sweetness.

I eat half of the muhammara in a hurry, and then I watch Vince. He’s eating slowly, probably to torture me. He tears off some pita with his fingers...those fingers that could be inside my body. His lips, wrapping around the food...his mouth could be on my nipple, or my clit, or my earlobe. So many possibilities, and I want all of them.

“You okay, Marissa?” he asks, and I’m positive he can read my mind.

“Just peachy.”

“Here, you can have the rest.” He slides the dish over to me.

All I care about right now is food and sex. Honestly, nothing else in the world matters.

I eat the rest of the appetizer.

It’s good, but not as good as sex.

Our main course is good, too, but I have the same problem. I dip a piece of lamb in the yogurt sauce, and yes, that’s excellent.

But not as excellent as sex.

Vince places his hand on my knee and slips his fingers under the hem of my dress.