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Bane flops down on the bed beside me. A tsunami of white, polyester sheets frames his ridiculous, amazing face. My brain skips. Or possibly that’s my heart and I’m having a stroke because he’s just so unbelievably, unfairly gorgeous. He’s a Michelangelo masterpiece in a dollar-store frame.
“I dare you,” he mouths. “Do whatever you want. Let’s do this.”
Something shifts between us. This is now a game with no rules. It’s permission. He watches me, waiting to see what my next move will be, if I’m truly going to do this thing. Do I want to get naked with this man and do this for real?
My hand is on his stomach, palm pressed against his delicious muscles and the soft, golden dusting of hair that leads down to a very, very happy spot indeed. My fingers twitch, my brain sending subliminal messages. Go lower. Go ALL IN. I look at that hand-stomach combo where we’re connected. The air is so charged, I half-expect to see sparks, but nope. There’s just that enormous ridge punching at the front of Bane’s low-slung pajama pants. The tip of him pushes at the elastic waistband of his Calvins. He’s all cotton-trapped and pent up, his sexiness too much for his clothes.
He raises his own hand, pressing his fingertips against my belly, tracing the soft curves. I forget how to breathe. In or out. It’s go time.
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