Текст книги "Bend"
Автор книги: Alessandra Torre
Соавторы: Ella James,K. Bromberg
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Текущая страница: 34 (всего у книги 41 страниц)
He does, wincing when I drop the chips into his palm. He frowns, rolling them over in his palm and holding them out to me.
“They’re for the slippers.” I clasp the top flap of my purse, ignoring the insistent press of his fist in my personal space. I bat off his hand. “Take it.”
“I don’t want your money.”
“I don’t want your charity. Please.”
“It’s not charity.” Stubbornness is entering his voice, and I fight the urge to smile.
“It’s giving me something for nothing … that’s charity.”
“I’ve had the pleasure of your company.”
I sniff in a manner that would, most certainly, make my mother roll over in her grave. “For five minutes? Please.”
“Then let me accompany you the rest of the way to your room. Just to make sure you arrive safely.”
I sigh. A big dramatic one—one that gives no hint to the fact that I haven’t been laid in almost two years, haven’t been on a date in almost half that time, and have never looked into a face as gorgeous as this man’s. “Just to the door?”
His mouth twitches. “Just to the door. Then you will have properly compensated me for the slippers and will be forced to accept your hard-earned chips back.”
“They weren’t that hard-earned,” I grumble, heaving to my feet, suddenly aware at the height at which my yep-definitely-too-old-to-wear-this minidress has risen. I work it back down, looking up a moment too early and catching his eyes on my legs. My hands freeze, his eyes looking up and catching my own. He should brush it off, look away, but instead he holds my gaze and grins, a slow, sexy smile that grabs ahold of my arousal lever and pushes that baby all the way up. Damn. This man and his fuzzy slippers, his bad boy smile and roaring confidence … I don’t belong anywhere within miles of this man. My blistered feet and I are way too vulnerable for the train wreck to which we are headed. Because I know what will happen when we get through the long walk to my room. All he will have to do is tilt his head, grin that naughty smile, and my ass will tumble over itself in a haste to do anything and everything more that he wants.
I reach up and accept his outstretched hand. He smiles down at me, our heights thrown off by my lack of heels. Shit, my heels. I crouch, scooping up my heels, my eyes suddenly friendly to their sparkling straps, their impossible heights that I was naïve to think I could handle. I grip his hand and shuffle forward, the soft pat of the slippers quiet on the tile floor.
“Feel free to lean on me,” he says, looking down on me with a smile. “And if you need to be carried …”
“I’ll be fine,” I grin. “Promise.”
He tugs gently, and we move, through the shops, my hand foreign in another hand, and I release his arm and grip his bicep instead, marveling at the strength, fighting the urge to squeeze and test the hard muscle.
Feet, don’t fail me now.
Chapter 2
“Are you here alone?”
I glance over, our hands separating eight paces back, when the awkward contact had become forced. “No. There are six of us. Bachelorette party.”
I may be mistaken, but I feel as if he stumbles slightly, a hitch in his step. “Yours?”
The three martinis at dinner make that question much more humorous than it should be, and I giggle. “Me? No.”
“A boyfriend?” We reach the lobby, and he reaches out, placing a firm hand on my arm, making sure I make the journey down the short bank of steps without incident.
I shake my head. “No.” I look over. “Is there a Mrs. Brett?”
He chews on his bottom lip as he meets my eyes, the first bit of indecision that I’ve seen on his face. And damn, it is a hot look. He should rock indecision more. The bite of white teeth combined with a tight jaw, rough stubble paired with intense eyes. “I wouldn’t be escorting you if I was attached.”
I look away from his face, breaking the connection before I tackle him to the ground and have my Southern way with him. We reach the elevators and stop, his finger pressing the button.
Silence. Awkward silence. I shift in the slippers, trying to look anywhere but in his general direction. I should be better at this. I’m thirty-two for God’s sake. I’m not a fifteen year old girl with her date to the prom. “Are you here on business?”
He grins, his head shaking, his hand gesturing for me to go ahead when the elevator doors open. “No. I’m with a few friends. Blowing off some steam.”
I press the button for the eighth floor, leaning back against the wall, putting as much distance between us as possible. He takes my lead, settling against the opposite wall, his stance relaxed, the lines of his dress shirt falling perfectly over dark jeans. I raise my eyebrows, my mouth curving into a smile. “Blowing off some steam?”
Our conversation is interrupted, a hand shooting in and catching the closing doors, the action stalling and then reversing their close. Three men step on. Not really men. What appear to be twenty year old boys, the smell of alcohol pressing into the car with them, their glassy eyes and curses preceding their entry. I see Brett’s eyes darken, the space between us suddenly full.
“What floor?” I ask the question when the doors close and their attention hasn’t moved, no button pressed, the elevator already starting an ascent.
Mistake. Their eyes move as one, locking on me, and the man closest to me stumbles, moving into my comfort zone. “What floor are you going to?” he slurs, the question causing encouraging laughter from his friends, one who casts a quick look in Brett’s direction.
“Leave her alone.” The tightness in Brett’s voice surprises me, and I look up to his face, caught off guard by the hard line of his jaw, the heat in his stare, his eyes on the men and not on mine. I want to reassure him, not that we are close enough that I would assume his protection. But it seems, from the stiffness of his body, his push off the wall and onto the balls of his feet, the iron in his tone, that he is ready to fight, to defend, to do all the unnecessary things that this bevy of boys is not looking for.
The doors slide open, and I squeeze through the men, their steps slow to move, Brett’s arm knocking them back, grumbled curses following the action, a cowardly shout of rebellion sent out right as the doors once again close. We stand in the empty landing.
“Are you okay?” His eyes are dark, face tight. I glance down and see his fists clenched.
I laugh, press a light hand on his chest. “I’m fine. They were drunk. It would have been fine.”
He grips my forearms, walks me three steps backward, until I am against the wall, and he is close enough to kiss, his face tilted down to me. “Don’t assume that. Never assume that.”
Then he closes the gap, his fingers tightening on my arms, squeezing so tightly there is almost pain, his mouth possessive and rough at first contact but melting instantly, his hands loosening, running up my forearms until they reach my shoulders, then past that to cup my face. A sound comes from me, something between a sigh and a moan, and he catches it on his tongue, our mouths molding into a fire of hot debate, the fight of our tongues one that turns into a dance of seduction—him pushing, me pulling, the press of his body getting tighter and tighter to mine, until I am on my toes, and the weight of him is pressing me against the wall. In a moment of pause, our mouths taking a readjusting period, I speak, my voice gasping, my senses overwhelmed, the only thing I know is that I want him too much to think straight, too much to make a coherent decision right now. “Wait.” I place a hand on his chest, and he immediately drags his mouth off mine, his eyes fierce, tight to mine, as he takes his own ragged breath of air.
“I’m sorry. I’m not used to … restraint.” His hands suddenly release their grip on my hair, our connection broken, and I sink to my heels, my mouth raw, my body throbbing … wanting … more. He’s not used to restraint? I’m not used to touch, to the taste of another’s mouth. It’s been years since I’ve had a cock in my mouth, years since I’ve felt a man’s skin beneath my touch, much less his hands on my body. I need to step away from this man. I need to get in my room, away from his cocky smile, his eyes that eat my soul, his hands that burn like possessive fire across my skin. I can’t control myself in his presence, won’t be able to keep myself from yanking out his cock, pulling up my dress, and spreading my legs wider than the Panama Canal.
He takes another step back, rubs his mouth. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”
I’m not. I blush. “It’s fine. I didn’t exactly stop you.” I push off the wall, trusting my feet to hold me. I must move away. I want him so badly. What am I doing? My new slippers move me silently forward. Beside me, his hands disappear inside his pockets, his head cast down. I stop in front of my room, take a steadying breath, and turn to him. “This is it. Thank you.”
His right hand is outstretched, fist closed. I stare at it in confusion before I realize what he’s doing. I give him an exasperated smile and hold my hands out together, cupped beneath his fist, the chips falling into my palms with a dull clink. “I wanted to pay you for the slippers.”
He chews on his lip again, the move an apparent habit, and stares at me as if sorting out something in his mind. Silence draws out, thickness in the air between us. God, I want to suck on that lip. Grab it between my teeth and suck. I fight the urge to squirm, the need between my legs crawling up my stomach and dragging on my breasts with its want.
He finally speaks, breaking our eye contact as he looks away. “I don’t want your money. It was my pleasure.”
I feel ridiculous, both of my hands closed around the chips. Like I am a Chinese doll ready to bow in respect. He doesn’t seem pushy about coming in, my fears of wanton sluthood unnecessary given his six-foot proximity from my body. I shoulder my purse open and dump the chips, fishing out my room key. I look down at my feet. “Want the slippers? You could run back down. Do this whole bit again on a new victim of poor fashion decisions.”
“Nah.” He leans one hand against the wall, the action bringing him a foot closer, still a safe distance away. “I’ll end the night while I’m up.” He pushes off the wall, holds out his hand, that gorgeous mouth stretching into a smile. “Nice to meet you, Riley.”
“Back ‘atcha Brett.” I shake his hand, releasing it quickly. Either I am imagining it, and am in serious danger of embarrassing the hell outta myself, or we are one slip away from headboard-banging a hole through to the next room.
I insert the key, push down the handle, and step in, giving him a small wave before gently shutting the door. It clicks, and I stare at the white wood. Somewhere, in the region between my legs, my sex drive sobs in despair. Okay, this is fine. I made it safely to the room, am now alone. Alone. No hot hands ripping at my clothes, his mouth hungry on my neck, his cock pressing against my skin before pushing deep and hard where I am in desperate need of it. Fuck. Somewhere, my brain bumps around and tries to find the place of reason where my decision is a good one. Surely this is the right move. I have retained my composure. I did not become that girl, the one who allowed horny desire to put her in harm’s way. Despite that man’s panty-dropping looks, chivalrous actions, and mypantiesarestillwet kissing ability, I don’t know him, he is a stranger. This is not Macon, Georgia. I do not know his parents, did not grow up sitting next to him on sticky bus seats. I can’t invite him in. Shouldn’t. Probably won’t. I rise to my tiptoes and look through the peephole.
He’s still there. Staring at the floor, the back of his hand to his mouth. He runs a hand through his hair, slowly, then with rough aggression. Then, suddenly, he’s gone. I look as far as I can, the peephole giving me a limited view of the world. I want to open the door, to peek outside and see him. To see whether he is striding confidently down the hall, or moving hesitantly on to the next part of his night. But I don’t. I drop my heels by the door, kick off the slippers, and take four steps, falling into the closest bed.
Chapter 3
I wake up thinking of Brett. The possessive grip of his fingers, the need in his mouth, the press of his body against me, the heat between our touch. The way my body had cried out and his had responded.
Circumstance brings me back to Earth, reminding me, with the cruel pairing of sunlight rays, that he left. Had the opportunity to escort me in, get my contact number or, at the least, rock my world with one more kiss. But instead he ran. Or rather, briskly walked. With a gentleman’s goodbye and nothing more.
Shower. Pathetic water pressure that alternates between hot and lukewarm. Squeezing out a mini bottle of shampoo with a British crest, yet made in Illinois. I dry off hard enough to realize that my back is sunburnt, the itch and scratch of the towel rough against my tender skin. Wrapping the white terrycloth around my body, I walk to the closet. Stare at my open suitcase, then at the clothes hanging. Nothing looks good enough.
I thought I was too old to feel like this. This adolescent, breathless high. Nervous anticipation at the idea that I might walk downstairs and bump into his gaze. The tingling feeling that I may have met my soul mate, kissed his mouth, gazed up into his face and felt his smile touch my skin. Am I one of hundreds? Just another girl, just a brief experience that he will think nothing of? Did I imagine the spark, the connection? My leg is jiggling. Jumping up and down underneath the desk as I apply mascara with a hand that is too shaky, considering my system is drug free. The resort is huge. We leave in twenty-eight hours. I may never see him again. I should have gotten his number.
“Shut the curtains, bitch.”
I ignore the words, examine my blue sundress, and wonder if the deodorant marks skipping along the front will rub out.
“Seriously. What time is it?”
“Nine-twenty.” I toss the dress down, give up on looking put-together, and grab a pair of shorts and a tank top. That’s about as high class fashion as my town gets. It will have to be good enough.
“Fuuuccccckk …” The word is muffled under ten pounds of hangover and one mascara-smeared pillow, but it’s there. I have about five minutes before Tammy not-a-morning-person McGowan rolls her ass outta bed, and I don’t plan to be in striking distance when that happens.
“Coffee is brewed. We’re supposed to be at the spa at ten. I’m gonna run downstairs and grab breakfast.”
A grunt. Muffled curses. A word that I think is curtains. I grab my purse and room key, open the door, and escape.
This hotel’s prices would make a nun curse like Tammy. I order a bottled water, apple, and blueberry muffin from the coffee stand off the lobby and still rack up a thirteen-dollar bill, fifteen percent gratuity graciously added automatically. And for that additional two bucks I don’t even get a smile. I scribble my last name and room number, sign the line, and escape with my tray of food, pressing open the door and stepping onto the balcony, grabbing a table by the railing and settling in.
Wedge sandals kicked off, my chipped pink toes curl against the stone railing, brilliant blue water sparkling at me from behind one hundred acres of palm trees and resort pools. A pigeon missing the toes on his right foot lands on the railing three feet to my right and tilts his head at my toes as if he might give them a taste. I toss him a piece of muffin, then kick out my foot, leaning back my head once I am convinced that my piggies are safe.
Peel sticker from the apple. Crunch. Chew. Swallow. The sun is warm, even this early. And no humidity. God, I wish Georgia was like this. Heat without the moisture bath that makes sweat bead on my upper lip. Here, I could bake for hours. High enough up for a breeze, the sun warming me with a gentle embrace, I take a swig of water and then screw the lid back on. Loosen the muscles in my neck, slide down a little in my chair, and close my eyes. Good old alone time. Fifteen minutes, maybe twenty. Then I will need to get my ass over to the spa for three hours of feminine chatter. Go Team McCrory.
A breeze blows from behind, ruffling the light hair on my forearm. Men’s voices. Talking too loud, the scrape of metal against pavers as they settle into the chairs behind me. The click of a lighter as one of them ruins a perfectly healthy set of lungs.
I keep my eyes closed, taking a bite of muffin as my mind wanders, my eavesdropping gene lifting its head when a voice starts that sounds familiar. I start to sit up but stop, not sure if now, makeup free with a face full of muffin crumbles, is how I want to reintroduce myself. I stay in place, slouching a little further, more sure with each additional word, that one of the men is Brett. A smile plays on the corner of my mouth.
“What happened with that girl from last night?”
“The blonde?”
“Yeah. Looked like you were headed up to her room.”
A pause. Soft cough. I almost fall off my chair in an attempt to hear his next words.
“Nothing happened. She’s here with a bachelorette party, and isn’t the type I’m looking for.”
I don’t pay attention to the other man’s response, my toes curling against the railing, body tightening in hurt and anger. Not his type. Maybe that was why he walked away so easily. And here I am, thinking my kiss had affected him as deeply as it had me. I dig my nails into my thighs, watching a curl of forgotten smoke float past, hearing the screech of chair legs as the men behind me move along.
Fuck him. I don’t need a one-night stand anyway. My dusty vagina is perfectly happy with the extensive network of cobwebs it’s spent years creating. Somewhere, in the empty recesses of my mind, my subconscious tears to pieces the ‘I love Brett’ picture and moves on to more official business.
Chapter 4
Midnight. Thirteen hours left in paradise, then our hung over selves will be strapped in and flying back to ATL. I hang an arm around twin necks, inhaling the scent of hairspray and feminine energy, leaning my head back, weight on their shoulders, and bellow the chorus of Sweet Home Alabama, the club singing along, my mouth breaking into a grin too big too contain, the familiar tune never failing to raise my spirits. Never mind that, between the six of us, we’ve set foot on Alabama soil less than ten times. It is the anthem of the South, and seeing as it took Jena flashing the Bahamian DJ her breasts to get it played, we own every syllable of the damn thing.
The last chorus rings out, and I release the girls, spinning on the floor, my arms up, getting bumped by sweaty bodies, the dance floor getting tighter by the moment. A heavy bass begins, drowning out the country chorus and starting back into the hip-hop that had been dominating the speakers all night.
I slow my hips, glance at our table, seeing Beth and Tammy there, the rest of us sprinkled between the dance floor and the ladies room. I am pushed forward, hands settling on my waist as a stranger tries to pull me into his crotch-thrusting imitation of a dance. I yank at his wrists, shooting an annoyed look over my shoulder, and move to our table, snagging my purse off its surface and moving toward the neon lit exit sign. Air. I need air. Air and a moment to regroup, focus. Come to terms with the fact that none of the men in this club will be taking care of my needs tonight. None of them seem worthy of a drink. Too young. Too immature. Too available. Too … not who I am looking for.
I bang through the exit door, the rush of cool night kissing my skin. I take two steps to the right and lean against the brick exterior wall, legs out, head flat against red brick. God yes. I almost wish I still smoke. I remember the escapes from life that it provided, the moment to take a pause from the world and do nothing but relax. Now, I don’t need the nicotine—just the combination of air and quiet are enough to ease my tension and take me one step closer to I-Can’t-Even-Remember-His-Name-Ville.
I sense the presence before I see it. In the shadows to my right. I stiffen, lowering my chin and staring, confronting whoever it is with my gaze. Then he speaks, and I relax, need and heat and want flooding my body with just the scrape of my name. In that one word, that one growl, every lie I’ve told myself is exposed. I need him. My body needs him. Wants more. I had behaved in the hallway of the 8th floor. I had made a mistake. I don’t intend to make another.
“Come here.”
He stalks forward, in a suit, his hands leaving his pockets as he walks, his head level, stare direct, and eats me with his eyes as he moves without hesitation, not pausing until he is suddenly against me, his hand firm, gripping the side of my face, his mouth taking mine in a possessive kiss that has me back against the wall, his palm against my skin almost hurting me in its need. I gasp for breath when I can grab it, his kiss desperate, dipping, pulling me tighter. I love it.
“I need you,” he grunts, his free hand sliding up my thigh, pushing my dress inappropriately high, his fingers gripping, squeezing, the heat of his palm sliding over my skin like he owns it, his large hand ending on my ass, and he feels every inch of it as if he is memorizing, worshiping, taking it in his mind as his own.
“Yes,” I gasp, lifting my leg and hooking it around him, the shift in my body opening the place between my legs, his fingers finding and running reverently over the line of silk that keeps me tied to the edge of sanity.
The door next to me opens, shielding us for a moment, and I freeze behind it, my body tensing. His hand drops from my face, wrapping around my body, the other hand returning to my ass, both of them working in concert and lifting, carrying me into the dark shadows where he had just stood, a new wall replacing the brick, this one rough stucco, and I feel lines of it dig into my sunburned skin as he sets me down, his mouth taking a break from the kiss and moving to my neck, the rough journey letting me know the level of his need.
Further proof is against me, his pelvis pressed tighter than possible against my own, the hard ridge of it against my sex making my breath hitch with every twitch of him along me. God, I want this man. Am made weak from his touch yet have never felt this aggressive.
Feather soft brushes against silk. Teasing. Torturing. His hand keeping my leg in place, though there is no way I’m moving it. Not when it opens me up to him. Not when it keeps that iron against the place where I want it most. My panties are so wet it is embarrassing. I pant against the night air, struggling for silence, the murmurs of the couple who have stepped outside breaking the silence of the night, the orange embers of their smokes reminding me of their presence, their attention on each other, a giggle escaping from their conversation and sending a moment of intelligent thought to my head. Am I really being humped in the shadows against the side of a building? Is this beautiful man really running the pad of his fingers back and forth, lower and higher, finding the—oh my god. My head drops back, and I can’t stop the moan that escapes me when my silk-covered clit is brushed by his fingers.
Jesus. It’s not a curse. It is a thankful message sent upward. I have been lost and now, in that light brush against my most sensitive place, I am found.
He chuckles against my neck, his fingers moving back an inch or two, until they are back at my soaked opening, pushing on the indent there, the silk moving far enough inside for me to feel the brush of skin on skin, and I just about lift off the ground in my need for more.
“Don’t stop,” I gasp.
“Honey, I’m not going stop until you fall apart in my hands. I need that. I’m not releasing you until it happens.”
He lifts his mouth off of my neck, returning to my mouth, his kisses softening as his fingers take their time, probing, fluttering over my clit, sliding a firm index down the line of my sex, making their way to my ass for a hard press, before returning and starting the insanity again. I am shaking, wanting, dying for another touch of his skin, wanting the silk tease of my panties gone, wanting the raw feel of skin on skin. Even with that need, I am not prepared when it happens, my mouth freezing against his kiss, brain function gone, motor skills impaired, every intelligent thought I ever had fleeing my body as his thumb presses against my clit and two of his fingers push inside my body.
Holy Jesus Hell.
He groans, his forehead on my own, pushing my head back against the wall. “Fuck, I wish you were open before me on a bed right now so I could see this.” The words tear from him, and the blurred vision of my senses sees the couple glance our way, a whispered discussion beginning, then ending; the club door opens.
“If we were on a bed right now, your cock would be out.” It is a difficult sentence to formulate, my hips thrusting, trying to help the push and withdrawal of his fingers, my eyes closing despite my best attempts to keep them open.
“Is that so?”
I can hear his need despite the cocky drawl of his question. I have my leg wrapped around him, can feel a tremor in his legs, can feel the stiff ridge of his cock that is anything but unaffected.
“I’m—” The word ‘close’ never makes it off my lips. It can’t, never has a chance at life, my orgasm eating it for dessert with a ravenous need that takes hold of everything else in its path. I tighten around his fingers, my body shuddering as delirium moves in needy waves, radiating from the center of my universe, which lies in the slick breath between his fingers and my everything. I don’t catch the first of his words; they disappear in my full body experience. But then later, I hear them as I fall back down to Earth, the vowels stretching out my grip on insanity, taking me to an additional plane I have never reached before.
“… beautiful creature. You feel so perfect. So open, so willing. I want to take every piece of you with my cock. Open up your world, and make you mine. Taste you on my mouth. Feel this sensation against the bare skin of my cock. God, I want you so badly. Have thought about you all day.”
His mouth stops moving, stops talking, crushes back on mine, communicating the most with its desperation, his fingers thrusting and then slowly halting their movement, and just staying in place, buried inside, my sex fuller than it has been in a long time. I drop my hand off his shoulders, let the one that has been digging lines of need into his back fall as a wave of sexual contentment moves in.
His mouth slows, and he slides my leg down, tugs my dress back down, keeping our kiss uninterrupted, his hands moving to cup both sides of my face as his legs straddle mine, my push against the wall less intense as our interaction changes to something less dirty. He breaks the kiss, resting his forehead against my own as he lets out a long breath that is half groan in its makeup. “God, Riley.”
He sounds so pained, so remorseful, that I almost check for a wedding ring, almost push against his chest to look into his eyes. But I don’t. I don’t do anything but enjoy the scent of his cologne, the view out of the bottom of my lashes, one of expensive fabric and a peek of tan skin.
“I don’t know what to do with you.” He finishes the statement with a brush over my lips, his hands lifting my face until it is turned up to him, our eyes meeting for the first moment since I lost all sense.
Damn, I could look in this man’s eyes all day. Could get lost in them, move for them, lie, steal, die for them. I stare in his eyes and fully accept that I am a woman. Vulnerable, emotional, delicate, easily overcome. I don’t know this man. Have shared less than a hundred sentences with him. Have just given him a piece of my virtue in the form of a finger fuck on a dirty Bahamian street in the dead of night.
I stare in his eyes and say nothing. Memorize the dark depths of them. The thick fringe of lashes that I’d accuse of being mascara enhanced had he not radiated masculinity from every pore on his body.
“I don’t need to ask if you do this often. Your body betrays you of the impossibility of that fact.” He speaks tightly, his hands keeping my face up, my eyes arrested by him, not that I have any plans of looking away in this lifetime. “I don’t. I can’t. This … is not normal.” His eyes drop to my lips and he bends, takes a long draw of my mouth, as if it is the last time we will ever kiss. He groans, and my shoulders are suddenly pushed back against stucco. “Fuck,” he swears. “God, I need you underneath me.” He releases me, steps away, rubs his mouth as he turns, half in the light, the shadows protecting me from the meat of his stare.
“So take me.” The voice coming out of my chest is not my own. It is of a confident woman who admits what she wants, takes what she needs.
He drops his hand, stares at me. “You don’t mean that. You’d regret it in the morning. And I don’t do one-night stands.”
“Meaning?” I stay against the wall. He can come to me if he wants something. I don’t know if, at this point in time, my legs have the capacity to move anyway.
He does come. Is in front of me in three strides, his hands on either side of my head, flat against the wall, his eyes intense, inches from mine. I smell the faint scent of whiskey on his breath. I notice the angle of his body, his hips too far away when all I want is them pressed against me. Is he still hard? ’Cause I am still wet. Desperately so. “Meaning,” he growls, “that if I have you, you will be mine. You will not return to life as you know it. You will not flirt with men around the water cooler at work. You will bend for me, spread for me, allow me to have every inch of your surface, all while screaming my name and shuddering into my heart. That is what I mean.”
Holy shit. I try to breathe normally. Try to stop my pulse from jumping through my skin. Try to speak in a way that doesn’t cause my voice to shake. “We don’t have water coolers.”
He smiles, and the change pulls me off of whatever ledge I am gripping onto. Oh my word. White, perfect teeth. A goddamn mischievous twinkle in his eyes. I can’t figure out if I like his intense side or smiling side more, but I try and hold on to this look for as long as I can. “And the rest?”
