A visual war wages between us while our bodies wave the white flag and want to surrender to one another. He lifts a brow. A non-verbal taunt. I respond with a lick of my bottom lip while I run a hand down the side of my neck and between my breasts.
He shifts his feet as his eyes fixate on my hand as it moves down my body. But it’s my gaze that’s caught now. On the bulge in his slacks. On the flex of his hands beside his hips. By the groan he emits deep in his throat that reflects everything I feel in this moment: want and frustration and desire and obstinacy and need.
Hope you brought your A-game, Whitley.
She wants to play this game? Tease me? Taunt me with an I’m not going to talk to you either? How I wish it were my tongue running over her body instead of her hand.
You never mess with a man on a mission, and my mission is to have her. Everything about her. Every single way possible in my life.
Right now, included.
So that little text? It was like flicking a lighter and that first spark fizzling out. I plan on flicking it again though, and this time I’ll get a goddamn wildfire. Just on my terms and in my own time.
She stares at me.
Don’t do it, Hayes.
Eyes asking.
You’ve got ten minutes max before the next interview.
Lips pursed.
Flick the lighter, Whitley.
Nipples harden beneath her shirt. Teeth biting into her bottom lip.
But she texted. She taunted.
Body all but calling to me.
Light the flame.
Begging for me.
Said she won’t talk.
Lips part. Chest heaves.
Yes, she will.
I clear my throat and know where this is going to go. How painful it’s going to be for me, but love it all the same.
Her gaze shifts down and takes in my dick, desperately hard for her. Her tongue wets her lips. She draws in a breath and then looks back up to me.
I raise an eyebrow. An I’m not talking, are you going to?
She lifts her chin and just for a split second I’m reminded of double-dog dares in the field behind her house and her frequent defiance to prove a point. I thought it frustrating then. But now? Now with her standing before me—curves and sex and desire and lust in one fucking perfect package—I find her defiance irresistible.
Our eyes hold. Wage a war smothered in silence but loaded with desire.
And want.
And lust.
And need.
There’s a split-second of hesitation where restraint is tested, taunted, and toyed with.
I take a step closer. Flick the lighter.
And then restraint’s broken.
We crash together. Lips and teeth and hands and bodies. Her moan. My groan. Her fingernails scoring. My fingertips bruising.
Both wanting more. Nowhere near getting enough.
Her back hits the wall. I can’t breathe. Can’t think. It’s her. All I want is more. All I think is mine.
And yet I say nothing. Neither does she. Somehow we’re still playing the game, still waging the war.
Her fingers fumble with my belt. My hand palms her tit. She sighs as my mouth claims her neck. Jesus Christ. The woman tastes like heaven. Like a fucking addiction I don’t want to quit.
My hands dip inside the waistband of her skirt. She pulls down my zipper. My fingertips touch her strip of tight curls, part her slit then slide down the line of her pussy.
Now that? That’s heaven. The heat of her. How wet she is. I dive right in without warning. Fingers buried to the hilt.
She cries out. Not a name. Not a word. Just a sound.
And then she tightens around me. Grips my fingers as she drenches my hand.
There’s no way in fucking hell I’m going to be able to stop myself. Fuck the plan. Screw the interview. Make them wait.
And when she wraps her entire hand around my cock and slides all the way down, I freeze. With my fingers still buried in her pussy, and her heat against my hand, I’m a fucking goner.
She works her hand back up, does a little twisting motion over my head, and assaults the nerves there in the best fucking way possible.
I close my eyes. Accept the pleasure. Groan in ecstasy.
And then I hear her chuckle. Know she’s playing me at my game but fuck if I’m not enjoying how she just took the upper hand. What can I say? This woman has her hand wrapped around my cock. It’s been eight days since I’ve been inside her.
Eight.
Whole.
Days.
Fuck.
I grit my teeth in restraint. Hold back—the Fucking hell, Saylor, I want to groan out, and try to process thoughts that she’s slowly erasing with each stroke.
Move, Hayes.
A slide up. A roll of her wrist. A tightening of her fingers. A scrape of nails on the underside of my balls.
Don’t let her make you talk.
My head falls back, but my fingers are inside of her. A reminder to her of what I plan on claiming. Taking. Using to my advantage.
My. God. She. Owns. Me.
It’s only when she shifts, when my fingers slip from her pussy and a throaty laugh falls from her lips that I realize she’s dropping to her knees.
To suck my cock. To wrap her lips around it. Use her tongue. And take what I give her.