Playing Dirty (Stargazer #2)(59)
Author: Jennifer Echols

She said lightly, “I thought you liked games.”

“This isn’t a game. It may have started out that way, but . . . ”

“That’s the problem.” She slapped away his hands so she could open the towel around his waist. “We’ll make it back into a game. I don’t have a lot of experience.” This was the truth, but she hoped he’d think she was being coy. “You can help me with my technique. Tell me how I’m doing on a scale of one to ten, with one being painful and ten being about to come.”

Before he could protest again, she put both hands around his swollen cock.

He gasped, and swore, and swore again. “Sarah.”

She used her hands like she wanted to use her center. She slicked her thumb across the fluid at his tip, then gripped him and slid up and down his length. After several minutes of silence but for his breathing, she stopped and looked at his face.

His dark green eyes watched her with a combination of disbelief and horror, which almost made her laugh. But he didn’t argue anymore.

She said, “Number, please.”

“Ten,” he said.

There were several more minutes of silence as she playfully circled the swollen head of his c**k with her thumb. She said, “Number every few seconds, please, so I can perfect my technique.”

“Ten,” he said.

She stroked slowly down one side. Then said softly to remind him, “Quentin.”

“Ten,” he said.

She stroked slowly up the other side.

“Ten,” he said.

“It can’t be ten all the time,” she scolded him. She slid one hand across his chest, over his heart, to enjoy the rapid rhythm. She gripped him harder with the other hand and stroked more quickly.

“Ah.” He laughed. “Eleven.” Then, “Ouch, three.” Then, “Eleven. Sarah, please don’t make me.”

His heart raced, and she was as aroused as if he were the one pleasuring her. She leaned over him, her lips brushing his lips. “Tit for tat,” she said, and pumped him hard again.

His hands were in her hair, pulling her, pressing her mouth to his mouth so forcefully that she was frightened, fleetingly. She took back control by stopping.

He broke away from her to say in agony, “Sarah!”

She gave him what he needed, as he had given it to her. She didn’t stop again until his come covered her belly and his grip on her hair slowly relaxed.

He watched his beautiful pink-haired girl slide her hands off his still-erect c**k and kiss her way down in that direction, then slowly back up his stomach toward his face, the emerald necklace sliding cold across his skin and making him flinch. All he could think was, Oh no.

She kissed his neck, his chin, his mouth, and looked into his eyes with her big, dark eyes. “Did I do it right?” she asked, disappointed.

He nodded slowly.

“I guess I’ve never seen you speechless before. Is it a good thing or a bad thing?”

He shook his head, because that’s all he could manage.

She sat back on her heels. Her shirt—that is, his shirt—fell open to expose tempting white lace panties, flat belly, beautiful br**sts. “This is not the response I was expecting,” she said, annoyed now. “I expected unmitigated jubilance.”

He began, “What does that mean, unmit—”

Clearly disgusted, she disappeared into the bathroom. He heard the water running briefly, and she returned naked. “Is there a gym somewhere in this house?” she asked without looking at him as she rummaged in the dresser drawer he’d cleared out for her.

“Yeah,” he said. “There’s a bowling alley, too.”

She turned around to look at him as she pulled a sports bra over her br**sts. “Really? Where?”

“Not sure.”

She stamped her bare foot impatiently. “Well, where’s the gym?”

“On the main floor, down the hall, to the right.”

She put on her tank top and shorts before she left, but she took her socks and running shoes with her, bundled together with her music player and earbuds, as if she couldn’t stand to stay in the room with him any longer.

The door clicked shut behind her. He stared at it, feeling numb, thinking, Oh no, oh no.

Finally he stumbled downstairs. He cooked breakfast for the Timberlanes and called their butler to come get it. He cooked breakfast for Martin and Owen and left it on the counter because they were already in the studio. The band should have plenty of time to finish the album by the afternoon, hours ahead of the midnight deadline that would cause them to break the contract with the record company. But Martin was paranoid and Owen was a dumbass, so they were getting an early start. Because of the time of day, Martin must be profoundly high right now. Quentin was glad Owen was down there rather than him.

Except that he had to do his best to pretend that everything was okay when Erin came in and sat at the bar for breakfast. And when Sarah eventually appeared from her run, wet tank top hugging her br**sts, and sat beside Erin.

Munching bacon, Erin laughed uneasily. “Sarah, what did you do to Q this morning? He acts like a zombie.”

“I know,” Sarah said. “I’ve never seen a man act so grumpy after a hand job.”

His grip slipped. Before he could catch it, an entire carton of eggs dashed onto the floor.

“I wouldn’t press it, Sarah,” Erin said evenly. “He’s about to crack.”

As he wiped up the puddle of yolk, Quentin stared at Sarah, because it was better than staring at Erin. But Sarah, ignoring him now, inhaled pancakes like it was her last meal. He had to keep cooking for her. Some exertion had made her ravenous. Running five miles on the treadmill. Or jerking him off. Or making him fall in love with her.

Finally she dabbed at her pink mouth with her napkin and slid off the stool. “Thanks for breakfast, Quentin. I want to make sure you know I appreciate what you do for me.” She galloped up the stairs to his room.

Erin was giving him a long, long, long look.

He cleaned up the kitchen automatically, then sat on the sectional. Erin lay on the opposite side with her eyes closed, practicing fingerings on her fiddle. It was a matter of time before she asked him a pointed question, and he wasn’t sure he could bluff her into believing that nothing serious had happened between him and Sarah. She knew him a little too well.

If only his Leia hadn’t clopped onto the patio ten days ago with the intimidating presence of a seven-foot-tall Wookiee. If only he hadn’t brought her down here to spy on them with all his public relations engineering.