"Oh, I only mean it wasn't any of that stuff that knocked my screws loose. That came looong before."
"I'm not worried. At least, if you plan to kill me, make it quick. I wouldn't be much fun anyway. I'm not the begging type…" I immediately bite my lip and shove the drink back in my face.
He slants an eyebrow, a mischievous smirk on his face as he removes his hand from my leg. "Begging, you say? Now, there's a thought…" He taps a forefinger against his chin.
I give him a good shove in the arm. "Don't even think about it."
"Hey," he says, nudging me back, "you brought it up. I'm a man. I can't help where my mind runs from there."
I glare at him, my heart slamming against my ribs because I want him to make me beg. I want to fuck him. I shouldn’t, but I do.
"Oh, and I have handcuffs," he says with a laugh, pulling back as if bracing for another hit.
"Are you really supposed to use those off duty? Wouldn't that be abusing your authority or something along those lines, Detective?"
"Well, Ms. Cross, who exactly is going to know other than us?" He looks around then back at me. "I won’t tell if you don't." He winks and clicks his tongue.
Heat floods my cheeks, my chest, every last inch of my body. I’d let him handcuff me and choke me. I’d let him do a number of things to me I wouldn’t let any other man do because he looks capable. He looks as though he would ruin me. And that dirty part of the soul that every last one of us has, it wants to be tainted. It yearns for something to make me feel filthy.
A smirk inches across his face, and he grabs my jaw, his eyes dropping to my lips as he leans in. His mouth is warm and soft and right against mine. His tongue parts my lips. His fingers work into my hair. And the next thing I know… he's dragged me into his lap. I'm straddling him, slowly grinding my hips against his and moaning into his mouth like a whore. Like a dirty, filthy whore. And all that does is make him kiss me harder, more deeply, more brutally. His teeth rake over mine, his hands now on my waist, his fingers skimming underneath my shirt.
"Fuck, I want you," he says against my lips, and I nearly lose all control. He wants me…
He grabs the waist of my jeans, pops the button, and rips the zipper down. And just like that, his hand is between my legs, his thick finger rubbing over my clit, across me, sliding into me. It's been so fucking long since I've been with a man—never a man like him—and I find myself holding my breath, my head tossed back. His lips work over my neck, every few inches biting and nipping at me. His knuckles press against me, bruising me as he fucks me with his hand.
All I want to do is touch him. Timidly, I trail my hand over his shirt, his hard chest and stomach evident beneath the thin material. I hesitate when I get to the waist of his jeans. I take a moment to feel his fingers inside me, flexing and bending. I swallow, my chest rising in ragged swells as I slip my hand inside his jeans, the head of his dick already wet from pre-cum. My fingers slide over him, my body drowning in a heat of want and need and primitive desire. And just as I pull his fly open, just as I wrap my fingers around the girth of his dick, just as I feel my muscles clenching, my body submitting to his touch… doubt slams over me.
I push away from him, stumbling as I stand and back away from the couch, out of breath. "I, uh… I, um…" I swallow. I feel my cheeks heat. My gaze strays from his dick to his hand wet with me to his shocked expression. "I…"
"Do you not…" His brow furrows. "I mean, I thought…"
"I just, um. Give me a minute."
I turn and hurry down the hall to the bathroom, closing the door behind me. I stare at myself in the mirror. Red lipstick is smeared all over my face, my chest splotchy. I'm going to fuck him, and he'll leave me, and then I'll hate him, and I think the biggest problem is I don't want to hate him. I want to pretend there is something good in this life. Pure and like those goddamn romance novels I so despise because at the end of the day, the idea of love weakens even the most cynical of creatures. The thought of owning someone the way that emotion does… it's addictive. And if I fuck him, that stupid fucking fairy tale will be incinerated.
Fuck the fairy tale. This is real life, Miranda. Fuck him and leave him. Use him just like you were used by all those people. That man—I need to look at him as an experience. A muse. Because love is bullshit. People are selfish. And that feeling of having a man inside you, having a man need you so badly, even if it is only for a few moments, well, I guess it's better to have that than nothing at all.
I call his name, staring at my reflection and telling myself not to regret this. "Jax, will you come here for a minute?"