“Me too,” she called back over her shoulder. “I’m so glad we’re not attracted to each other.”
As soon as the door swung shut, Riley ran.
Chapter Eight
“This is the worst idea I’ve ever had,” Clark said aloud to the empty room as he tossed the pillow back on his sofa and thumbed open the button on his jeans.
He didn’t feel like he had a choice. The only parts of his body that burned hotter than the places where Riley had touched him were the ones where she hadn’t. He sucked in a harsh breath through his teeth as the cold air of the room kissed the flushed skin of his hard cock.
Wrapping a rough hand around himself, he squeezed at the base, trying to hold off the sensation that had been building from the moment Riley’s eyes had drunk in the sight of his naked chest. She had looked so caught, so helplessly wanton, watching him undress just so she could put her hands all over him.
Clark sank down onto the couch, his knees already jelly, one hand gripping his thigh, the other gathering precome and working it down in loose, easy pulls. Was he really going to do this? Get himself off to the idea of a woman he couldn’t tolerate?
His abdominal muscles clenched. One who made him so angry, so senseless, so bloody out of control.
She’d worked him over like a goddess merely to prove that she could. Each stroke of her strong, capable hands its own sweet torture. Riley had coaxed his muscles to unclench one by one, her hands moving without hesitation from his neck down his spine. The steady pace she kept unrelenting. Every tender ministration bringing him another breath closer to his undoing.
Clark shouldn’t fantasize about someone who loathed him. It was wrong. Bad.
Hadn’t Riley gone out of her way to tell him she didn’t want him and never would again?
Just let me know if you want it harder, she’d said, teased.
The silky strands of her hair brushing against his bare back as she leaned over him. Her hot breath falling against the sensitive skin of his nape.
Clark bit his already abused lip so hard he tasted blood, trying not to whimper for her, not to thrust his hips up into his calloused palm. He fought himself the way he’d battled not to beg for Riley’s touch to slide lower than his waistband. Or worse, for her to let him touch her—anywhere, everywhere—in return.
Nothing but a lifetime of ruthless, well-honed restraint had kept him playing statue with her hand on his neck, his own breath gone ragged in his ears.
Fuck, fuck.
He squeezed on the upstroke, lengthening his pulls, swiping his thumb across the glossy head. He was so hard. His balls tight, sore. Clark hated how good this felt. How helpless he was to deny himself the terrible indulgence.
Even the way she worked made him want to scream. Had he ever seen anything as sexy as Riley Rhodes with a pen in her pouty, porn-star mouth? Studying like she was ravenous for it. Making connections in seconds. Diving in like she’d conquer any problem, just watch her and wait.
God, he would if she’d let him. Clark was a sick bastard who could come just thinking about how her whole face went rosy with pleasure when she thought she’d solved something.
He fucked his fist, letting himself recall the ridiculous way she applied lipstick, slowing the memory down, zooming in on her shiny, dark pink lips.
In his fantasy he waited until she put the cap back on, touched the corner of her mouth with a single finger to make sure the application was pristine.
Then he stepped in front of her and slowly, deliberately used his thumb to smear the bright, tacky substance toward her cheek.
Get on your knees.
He’d watch her fight the impulse. But in the end, Riley would do it, her eyes flashing as she took him between her lips, ruining her own makeup on his cock.
Clark licked his palm, made his strokes slick, imaging the wet heat of her mouth.
Fine. If he was gonna do this, he might as well do it—
Think about pinning her down on his bed and getting his mouth on her pussy. Having her clench his comforter in her fists. Her legs over his shoulders, her heels digging into his back.
He’d finger fuck her until it was dripping down his wrist. Make her watch, glassy-eyed, while he licked it off. Riley would beg for release, weep for it.
Clark groaned, the sound loud in the camper, obscene in his own ears. He threw his head back, banging it against the side of the camper, stars dancing in front of his eyes. Shit. The pain worked for him right now, melded in with all the other good-bad emotions. The wrongness of the orgasm building at the base of his spine.
No. Not yet.
He slowed his strokes to keep from spilling.
She thinks you’re awful, mate. His hips hitched. I am.
Because just when Riley got close, right on the edge, sobbing for how badly she needed to come, he’d flip her over and spank her, take that ripe ass in hand and make it sting.
Clark would get her to count the strokes. Have her apologize for driving him to distraction. For not taking enough care with herself. For lying to him and destroying his peace.
Even after she finally promised to be good for him, he’d decline to bring her over the edge, instead manhandling her so she straddled his thigh, granting her the small mercy of finishing herself off grinding against his denims.
Riley would think it was punishment, that he refused to touch her. But really Clark didn’t trust himself, even in his fantasies. He wanted too much. It was all-consuming, made him forget.
The worst part was, Clark pictured her face as he came, splashing hot across his fist. Her face that first night when he kissed her. The way her cheeks had been crimson from the cold, her hair mussed from his hands, her smile bright and soft and hopeful.
After, as he cleaned up, he told himself he wouldn’t do that again. Wouldn’t let his body get used to thinking about Riley, associating pleasure with her name.
She was a trap, perfectly set, designed for his undoing. But Clark wasn’t an animal.
He wouldn’t fall for the honeyed illusion of her. No. He would get up tomorrow, early enough to make up for the progress he lost today. He’d earn back the respect he’d fumbled, slowly but surely.
If he really loved his work, he couldn’t risk it again.
His father had gotten him this fucking job, he reminded himself as he brushed his teeth. His father, who’d promised to come visit, to see the progress he hadn’t made.
Shame burned hot across Clark’s back as he climbed into bed, as he shivered, trying to shake the memory of Riley’s hands.
I can prove it, she’d said to him that day with the dagger. And perhaps that was where he’d gone so wrong. Letting her.
Giving her chances to weave a fabrication about curse breaking instead of cutting to the chase and pulling back the curtain. Leaving them both no choice but to confront stark reality. Enough was enough. Already he’d let her go too far.
As talented a pretender as Riley was, Clark couldn’t let her act stand unchallenged.
Chapter Nine