Page 43 of Willing Prey

Thanks to budget cuts, I teach health along with PE, so at least I’m ready with the scientific explanation.

“You know, the dents and textured skin on my thighs and ass? When muscle fibers—”

He waves me away. “I know what it is. Why would you hide it?”

Really?

“Sometimes I feel self-con—”

“Ridiculous. The only reason you should hide it is so that I’m not thinking about licking it.” He’s on another level, but it’s making me smile. “These look painful.”

“They’re fine. Tight but soft. Like a compression sleeve, but for my ass.”

“They offend me.” His grumble tickles my neck. “I was ready to chew through them earlier.”

“Thank you for your restraint.” Controlling myself is the true torture here. I’m shaking with silent laughter. If I encourage this behavior, I’ll never be able to own a piece of shapewear again. And regardless of Shane’s threats of destruction, I plan on continuing to wear it.

“I can’t believe you put these on your body.

” It’s the disgust in his voice that bests me.

A giggle breaks loose, then it’s a full-on laughter avalanche.

I can’t stop. Tears stream down my cheeks, and if my face wasn’t red before, it is now.

Feeling Shane’s chest shift against mine as he laughs only intensifies my giggle fit.

“How did we go from I love you to torture shorts?” I ask when I can speak normally.

“First, I had to make sure you know I love you. Then once that was sorted, I needed to make sure you realize how beautiful you are.”

And we’re back to sweet.

Beneath my ear, his heartbeat is steady, even. Mine’s running wild. From laughing and the surge of love I feel for this overthinking, shapewear-hating man. It’s unfair. I can’t be the only one with an elevated heart rate.

Cotton smooths beneath my palm as I ease my hand toward the waistband of his pajama pants. The slightest hitch in his breathing makes me smile.

There we go.

When I reach the meeting of his shirt and pants, I slide my hand under his shirt. His stomach muscles tense beneath my fingertips as I drag them through the soft trail of hair that disappears into his pants.

Temptation is strong, the desire to slip my hand into his pants rushing against the dam of my self-control.

Teasing will only make it better, but it’s hard to be patient when I know what’s waiting for me: The heat when I wrap my hand around him.

How feeling him stiffen and grow will send that jolt of pride through me.

The one that always makes me want to say, Look, look at what I can do to you , as if I’ve cracked some magic code instead of triggering a biological instinct.

That first teasing dewdrop of arousal that makes me crave more.

I want all of that, and I want it right now.

But I wait, gently running my fingers back and forth along his waistband, enjoying the shiver of his abdomen beneath my touch.

His heartbeat is picking up, the steady thump, thump, thump, becoming a thumpthumpthump.

That isn’t good enough. I want it racing, my head rising and falling with his chest as he breathes harder and harder.

Shifting his hips, he moves enough for the bulge in his pants to become noticeable.

There’s a subtlety to the movement, as if he thinks I don’t realize he’s hard, and he’s trying to inform me politely.

Precious.

Another little hip wiggle. It’s the equivalent of his cock giving me a wave.

A friendly, in case you haven’t noticed, I’m hard, right here, just saying, flag-down.

I ignore it. Back and forth, I trace patterns on his skin, asking inane questions about work and pointless things that neither of us care about.

His answers are distracted. Both of us are focused on my fingers, specifically the distance between them and his cock.

Trust me, I want to touch it as much as you want me to.

Tenting his pajama pants, his cock is the elephant in the room. Trying not to think about it means it’s the only thing in my head. Is arousal leaking from the tip yet? A drop ready to be caught by my tongue? I can practically taste him.

There’s a racehorse in his chest now, runaway and unstoppable. Another slight shimmy of his hips.

“Do I need to move?” I ask innocently. “So you can get comfortable? Should we talk about the shorts more?”

“I’m comfortable.” Ground through gritted teeth, his statement isn’t very believable. But clearly, he’s figured out what I’m doing and wants to play too. For the first time since I started this, I reach beneath his waistband, flicking the elastic of his boxer briefs.

“Good.” Another flick of the elastic. “Because I’m very comfortable.”

Lifting the waistband, like I might be sliding my hand beneath, makes his whole body tighten. Whatever this game is, I’m totally winning.

Unable to resist, I steal a peek at his cock.

Damnit.

Looking was a mistake because I don’t just want to look. I want to touch and squeeze and stroke and lick. But I also want to make him suffer. Just the teensiest bit.

“You know, you can touch it if you want to.”

“I will.” I ease the waistband back to his skin, even though part of me is annoyed at depriving myself of the view. “Later, though.”

His incredulous noise, strangled and sputtering, makes me laugh. Again, he tenses beneath me, but this time it isn’t arousal or anticipation. It’s the tight, thrumming tension of a predator poised to strike.

Uh—

Shane rolls us before I get to the oh , pinning me under him.

“No. No later—you started this, you’re going to finish it.” Dark and intense, his gaze is hungry. “Now.”

“Can I pee first?” I blink up at him, trying not to look like I’m planning something.

“I suppose.” He rolls onto his side, freeing me.

“Thank you,” I say primly. Slipping off the bed, I move like I’m heading to the bathroom. Once I’m out of easy grabbing distance, I turn to look at him. “Don’t worry, I’ll let you fuck me.”

Amusement crosses his face. “Thank you, I think?”

I whirl and bolt for the bedroom door.

“Damnit, Claire,” Shane barks from the bed. The sound of his feet hitting the hardwood floor sends a rush of delight skittering through my bones.

“If you can catch me,” I shriek over my shoulder, taking the stairs two at a time.

Racing through the foyer and out the front door, I’m focused on the tree line on the far side of the lawn.

Damp grass clings to the soles of my feet, the night air cool on my face.

Behind me, I hear Shane closing in. Ahead, the forest waits, darkness stretching between the trees.

Shane’s breath is at my back. I cross the tree line as he lunges for me.

Predators wait in the void, occupying the spaces moonlight can’t reach.

In the heartbeat before the hunt turns into the fight, one thought fills my mind:

There better be room for two more.