My arousal dies a quick and terrible death.
I walk over to the desk where I was working, pick up my phone. “So, do you want to get started?” I sound abrupt and I know it, but there’s nothing I can do about it. Not when the violence of the past is mixing so brutally with the reality of the present.
But Veronica just lifts a brow, puts a careless hand on her hip and somehow manages to look every ounce the goddess, even in yoga pants and a hoodie. “Not even going to offer a girl a drink first, hmmm?”
“Nice try, but I’ve been down this road with you before. I’ll offer you a drink. After you answer one of my questions.”
“So it’s going to be like that, is it?” The bored look on her face doesn’t fool me. Not when I can see the bruises lurking in the depths of her eyes.
“If it is, it’s because you made it that way.” I move over to the winged arm chair in the sitting area of the suite. Gesture for her to take a seat on the sofa opposite it.
“Which way is that, exactly?” she counters as she slowly unzips her hoodie and drops it to the floor. Then she’s sauntering toward the sofa, hips swinging and nipples poking through the thin fabric of her tank top. “Oh right,” she murmurs as she passes me, her hand reaching out to palm my stiffening cock. “The hard way.”
Fuck. It’s amazing just how easily this woman could have me by the balls. I know what she’s doing, can see her tricks coming from a mile away. And still she gets me every damn time.
Because I want to give in to her, I grab her wrist instead. Then spin her around until her ass is nestled against my cock and my arms are tightly wrapped around her body. “Is this what you came here for?” I whisper against her ear. It’s a taunt and we both know it, especially as I work to get my fingers around both of her wrists. Once I do, I hold her hands in front of her body this time, pressed up tight against her abdomen.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” she tells me.
But she’s wiggling her ass against me, getting me harder with each shift of her hips. In retaliation—or self-defense, at this point I can’t tell which it is—I bring my free hand up and cup her breast, squeezing her nipple between my thumb and forefinger.
Her breath hitches, breaks, and as her body melts against mine it takes every ounce of self-control I have not to kiss her. I manage it, but it costs me, even before she digs her nails into the back of my hand.
“I don’t have to flatter myself,” I answer when I can finally trust my voice again. “Not when you’re so good at doing it for me.”
“Letting you scratch an itch isn’t flattery.”
“Maybe not. But knowing I’m the only one who can is.”
“Touché.” She turns her head then, presses a hot, openmouthed kiss against my jaw. “Now, are you going to give me what I came here for, or am I going to wander downstairs to the bar and find someone who doesn’t ask nearly as many questions as you do?”
I laugh. I can’t help it. She’s a fucking handful. And I’m a fucking idiot for being so turned on by it. By her.
Because she is—and because I am—I keep my hand around her wrist as I tug her arms up and over her head. She’s all stretched out now, back arched, neck long, tits sticking out. It’s a good look for her. A very good look.
I keep her like that for several, long, drawn out seconds just because I can. Then I start moving, my thighs pressing against hers and pushing her forward, forward, forward, until she’s pressed up against the window that runs the length of one wall—a window that also happens to overlook the very busy, very famous intersection at Hollywood and Vine.
Only then do I let go of her wrists.
“Hold them there,” I order as she starts to lower her arms.
For the first time, her bravado falters. “We’re on the third floor. People can see us.”
It’s a real concern, especially considering just how famous her face is. That still doesn’t mean I’m going to give in. She’s not the only one who likes to push. “Press your palms against the glass,” I tell her firmly. “And keep them there.”
There’s a part of me that expects her to ignore my words, a part of me that is even looking forward to it. But in the end she does what I ordered. And there’s an unexpected pleasure to be found in that, too.
Especially when I get to watch her tremble, her whole body shaking with what looks a hell of a lot like desire. Now, I just need to figure out if it’s the exhibitionism or the orders that have her so turned on.
“How long—” She’s trembling so badly, breathing so quickly, that her voice breaks on the second word. I put a soothing hand on the small of her back, stroke her softly. Her breathing calms down under my ministrations, but the trembling only gets worse.
Desire then, not fear.
Good.