Page 39 of Role Play (Off the Books #1)

I squeal when he doubles his efforts. “No,” I wheeze between ragged breaths. “I’m not a liar.”

“Yeah, you are. We both are.” His tickling intensifies even further, and I collapse against him, breathless with laughter.

“Fine, fine. You’re all right,” I secede, fearing I’m going to lose bladder control soon.

He immediately stops, but doesn’t release me. I’m suddenly acutely aware of our position—my back pressed against his chest, his strong arms around my waist, my breathing rapid from more than just the tickling.

Heat radiates from his body, seeping through my thin T-shirt. I can feel the firmness of his chest, the tension in his muscles as he holds me. My heart pounds so loudly I’m certain he can hear it, and a delicious shiver runs up my spine when his breath tickles the sensitive skin below my ear.

“That’s better,” he murmurs, his voice low and close.

I turn in his arms, intending to push away, but instead find myself face to face with him, mere inches separating us.

His eyes drop to my lips, then back up, a question in them.

The air between us feels electric. My gaze traces the strong line of his jaw, the fullness of his lips, and I’m seized by a sudden, desperate longing to close the distance between us.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks, his voice husky.

“Like what?” My own voice sounds hoarse and strange to my ears.

“Like you want me to kiss you again.”

“Well, I’d ask, but you said I’m a terrible kisser.”

He smiles. “I also just told you I’m a liar. And teasing you is my favorite new hobby.” He runs his thumb over my cheek. “Guilty confession? It turns me on when you blush.”

My heart hammers painfully. The logical part of my brain screams that this is dangerous territory, that I should laugh it off and step away. But my body has other ideas, rooting me to the spot, craving his touch like a physical ache.

“Maybe I do want you to kiss me,” I whisper, surprising myself with my honesty.

A slow smile spreads across his face. “All you have to do is ask, Sora.”

“I’m not good at this,” I admit, trying to push him away with my palms against his strong chest. He doesn’t budge, but my discomfort overcomes the tension between us.

“You’re not good at what?”

“Being sexy and salacious. It’s why I rarely write dirty talk. My characters kind of rush through sex with big, sweeping declarations of love. Not exactly what the readers want.”

“Not that I’m complaining,” Forrest says, still transfixed on my lips. “But why are you telling me this right now?”

“Because you’re helping me with book inspiration, right?”

His lips turn down in a frown. “Sure.”

“So, if I can’t write it, what makes you think I can say it?”

I can see the epiphany dawn on his face. “I’ve been questioning my usefulness to you, but this I can do. I can teach you dirty talk. It’s a second language for me.”

I shake my head, my cheeks flaming. “No, thank you. I can think of nothing more awkward than you giving me a lesson in sex talk.”

He pinches my side gently, but warningly. “I can. Like how awkward would it be if I tickled you until you peed yourself?”

“Forrest,” I hiss. “Don’t you dare.”

“Tickle torture or lessons in dirty talk. Pick your poison.”

“Fine. Tickle torture,” I sass.

He shrugs and pulls me tighter against him.

“Nope. Sorry. Dealer’s choice. I’m going to demonstrate.

” There’s a dangerous edge sharpening his tone now, and a curl of heat forms low in my belly.

Forrest’s eyes darken. He glances around the half-painted room, like he’s come to a decision. “But not in here.”

“What?”

Without warning, he scoops me up, one arm under my knees, the other supporting my back. I let out a startled rasp.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m not saying filthy things to you in my daughter’s future bedroom,” he explains, carrying me out into the hallway. “That would be weird.”

“That’s fair. Where are we going, then?”

“Your room.” He navigates the staircase with impressive ease, considering he’s carrying me. “The master suite, right?”

I nod mutely, suddenly nervous. But I don’t tell him to put me down. I don’t ask him to stop. Because deep down, beneath all my excuses about book authenticity, I want this. I want him…really bad.

My stomach flutters with a mixture of anticipation and anxiety. Flirting and banter are my native tongue. But now we’re moving into Forrest’s natural habitat. The land where panties melt underneath his smoldering gaze. Where women don’t just ask, they beg on their knees.

What if I disappoint him? What if I’m a turn-off?

Or even worse, what if all this is just another job to him?

Dane’s rejection is still raw in my mind…

What if I’m also a “dime a dozen” to Forrest?

Somehow that might hurt worse. The thoughts swirl mercilessly in my mind, but beneath them all is a singular, overwhelming and curious desire that drowns out every doubt.

He nudges open the door to my bedroom with his foot. The room is sparsely decorated; I haven’t fully moved in yet. Just a massive king-sized bed with crisp white linens, a few boxes of clothes, and my laptop on the nightstand.

Forrest sets me down gently on the edge of the bed, then steps back, studying me. “You comfortable?”

I swallow hard. “Yes,” I lie.

“You’re blushing.”

“I’m not in control of it,” I say, covering my cheeks with my hands.

He doubles back, pulling my hands from my face. “Don’t hide. I need to see you, and read your reactions.”

“Huh?”

“I realize I’m taking you out of your comfort zone here, for the purpose of research of course,” he says with a wink.

“But I don’t want to push you too far and upset you.

I see you. I study you.” He cradles my face, running his thumbs over my temples.

“I know how your eyes turn down at the corners when you’re about to cry.

I know how the little veins above your temples flare when you’re pissed but you’re holding back what you really want to say.

And I know you blush when you’re lying. Like when you tell me you don’t want me, you light up like a Christmas tree.

Because you do, don’t you?” He’s standing between my knees, holding my head in place, looking down at me with an intensity that makes it hard to breathe.

“I bet you want me almost as much as I want you.”

“I don’t know,” I murmur, knowing without a doubt my cheeks are betraying me.

“You’d like to learn how to write good dirty talk, right, Sora?”

Call the cops and arrest this man, because the way he says my name should be illegal. “I suppose.”

“Because your muse is right in front of you.”

I swallow loudly, surrendering to his burning gaze without flinching. “Fine. We can talk about it.”

“Just talk?” His hand comes up to my face, his thumb tracing my lower lip. “Or do you want me to show you, too?”

I nod slowly, not trusting my voice.

“Use your words,” he murmurs, and the demand in his tone sends another rush of heat through me. “Tell you or show you?”

“Show me,” I whisper.

His smile is predatory, and now I’m all too aware of the impatient tingling in my nipples. Without warning, he tugs the bandana from my hair. I blink in confusion as he stretches it between his hands.

“Close your eyes,” he instructs.

I comply, my heart thundering like a stampede of beasts.

The soft fabric of the bandana slides over my eyes, blocking my vision completely as he ties it securely behind my head.

“Is this okay?” he asks, his voice closer now, breath warm against my ear.

I nod, then remember his instruction. “Yes.”

“Good girl,” he praises, and something about the simple phrase makes my insides clench with need. “Now, just listen. Feel. Try to get out of your head.”

The bed dips as he sits beside me. I can feel the heat of him, even though we’re not touching.

“The problem with dirty talk,” he says, his tone conversational, as if we’re discussing the morning traffic, “is that people overthink it. In writing, don’t try to make it poetic or clever.

Real dirty talk is raw, gritty, and above all things, it’s honest. Just saying exactly what you want when you want it.

No etiquette, no apologies. Simply primal.

That’s what drives a woman to the brink. ”

His hand lands on my thigh, just above my knee, and I jolt slightly at the contact.

“Now, some women want to be praised,” he continues, his hand sliding upward with agonizing slowness.

“Told how beautiful they are, how good they feel. Others want to be degraded a little—called names, ordered around. The key is knowing your partner, understanding what makes them respond. All women have little tells. You have to pay attention.”

“I can’t exactly see my readers through the page, Forrest,” I complain. “And books are written long before the reactions they elicit. So that’s not exactly helpful.”

He groans. “Sora, I’m trying to do a thing here. I realize my metaphors aren’t perfect, but can you roll with it, killjoy?” His fingers trace maddening patterns on my inner thigh, not quite high enough to provide any real satisfaction, but enough to make me want to close my legs down on him.

“Sorry. Continue. I’ll behave.” I suck in a sharp breath when his hands graze an inch higher.

“Great. Back to class. So, for example”—his voice drops an octave—“right now I can tell by the way your breath hitched that you like when I touch you here.” His hand skates higher, thumbs brushing dangerously close to where I’m starting to ache for him.

“And I can see your nipples hardening through your shirt. You think that sassy mouth shields you, but your body is betraying you, Sora. I wish I could see into your mind, witness all the filthy things you want me to do to you right now.”

I bite my lip to stifle a whimper, embarrassed by how accurate his assessment is.

“Just describe one of them,” he murmurs. “I want to hear it from you. That’d be so sexy.”