Hard Sell (21 Wall Street #2)(49)

As with everything between us, though, sex is a war, and Matt’s determined to win this battle.

“Tell me,” he murmurs, pulling back slightly. “Tell me what you want.”

I stay silent, and he pulls back another inch. “Come on,” he teases, only his breath touching me.

I bite my lip and arch into him, trying to bring his mouth closer, but his hand spreads low over my belly, holding me still. He gives me a light lick, and I cry out. So close . . .

“Tell me,” he urges, his voice rougher now. “Let me know you want it to be me, love.”

It’s the unexpected endearment that unravels me—the vulnerability of it lets me be vulnerable. I run my fingers softly through his hair and hold his gaze. “Matt.”

He closes his eyes on a groan, and this time when he puts his mouth on me it’s with purpose. He presses his tongue to me, circling with gentle insistence, knowing exactly what I need.

A sharp cry slips out as I let go—a surprise, since I’m usually more of a silent type.

Matt’s hands and mouth gentle as I come down from my orgasm, his touch light and soothing.

I push myself to a seated position as he stands, even as my limbs feel heavy and sated.

I start to reach for him, but he gently grabs both hands. “You don’t have to.”

I frown in puzzlement. Matt’s always been a generous lover, but normally by now he’d be on top of me. Inside me.

He smiles and catches my chin. “I just meant that I wanted to do that. Not because I wanted anything in return. Because I wanted you.”

The words are a rush. “Noted. And appreciated. But don’t even think about being greedy, Mr. Cannon.” I reach for his belt buckle. “Because I want you, too.”

Matt’s eyes darken with desire, and together we shed his clothes in record time.

I mean to suggest we move to the bedroom, but he’s already lowering over me.

His hands are rough and needy as he pulls a condom from his wallet, then spreads my legs. His erection is hot and hard as he nudges me.

Matt lets out a groan and nips my shoulder before lifting his head and locking eyes with mine. “I need you. Now.”

I cup his face with my hands, spreading my legs wider in invitation.

His lips capture mine at the precise moment he thrusts inside me, and I gasp against his mouth.

“Damn you,” he whispers hoarsely. “Damn you for what you do to me.”

Back at you.

My hands move over his broad back, my hips meeting his every thrust.

He kisses me, and I forget everything. Our messy past, his parents, the stupid contract, the fighting. There’s only him, only us.

Matt hooks an arm behind my knee, changing the angle just slightly so that every thrust hits me just right.

I cling to his shoulders, my nails digging in in warning.

“Come,” he growls against my throat. “Come again.”

I do, and he comes with me, our cries unapologetically echoing throughout the quiet living room.

We catch our breath together, neither moving or saying a word. Thank God. I’m not sure there’s anything to say.

I’m both dismayed and relieved when the moment’s realized by Juno, who comes back into the living room and shoves her rabbit squeaky toy against Matt’s hip.

Matt chuckles and gently pushes the dog’s face away, which only makes Juno more insistent.

“All right, all right, you win,” Matt says, pulling away and standing up. “I knew there was a reason we usually do this at my place.”

Actually, the reason we usually “do this” at his place is because it feels safer. Having him in my home is unnerving enough. Having him naked in my home is a whole other thing entirely.

We both gather up our clothes, not meeting each other’s eyes as we get dressed.

“Okay,” Matt mutters to the dog as he zips his pants. “Now I can play with your damn toy.” He winces as he pulls the bunny from Juno’s snout.

“Yeah, they get a little . . . slobbery,” I say as he tosses the rabbit across the living room, to Juno’s delight.

He smiles and wipes his palm against his pant leg, but Juno returns with the toy for another round. Matt repeats the process, playing fetch with my dog’s disgusting toy as though it’s the most natural thing in the world.

He picks up the abandoned tea and winces as he takes a sip. “I hate tea.”

“But you stayed for a cup.”

He smiles. “I did, didn’t I.”

I swallow, wanting to know what it means but too scared to ask. “You want something else to drink?” I say instead.

Matt grins. “You asking me to stay?”

My heart lurches at the question, at what it means. I don’t do this sort of thing. I don’t ask men to stay for tea and sex and lingering.

And yet here I am, wanting desperately for him to stick around, even as I’m terrified he’ll say no.

“I’m asking if you want a drink,” I dodge.

He grins cockily. “No, you’re asking if I want to stay.”

I look away.

“Sabrina.”

“What?” I snap.

He waits until I relent and meet his eyes. Then he smiles, softer this time. “I’d like to. Stay, I mean.”

I shrug as though it’s no big deal and doesn’t matter to me one way or the other.