Sweet Cheeks(101)

Her gaze shifts down and takes in my dick, desperately hard for her. Her tongue wets her lips. She draws in a breath and then looks back up to me.

I raise an eyebrow. An I’m not talking, are you going to?

She lifts her chin and just for a split second I’m reminded of double-dog dares in the field behind her house and her frequent defiance to prove a point. I thought it frustrating then. But now? Now with her standing before me—curves and sex and desire and lust in one f*cking perfect package—I find her defiance irresistible.

Our eyes hold. Wage a war smothered in silence but loaded with desire.

And want.

And lust.

And need.

There’s a split-second of hesitation where restraint is tested, taunted, and toyed with.

I take a step closer. Flick the lighter.

And then restraint’s broken.

We crash together. Lips and teeth and hands and bodies. Her moan. My groan. Her fingernails scoring. My fingertips bruising.

Both wanting more. Nowhere near getting enough.

Her back hits the wall. I can’t breathe. Can’t think. It’s her. All I want is more. All I think is mine.

And yet I say nothing. Neither does she. Somehow we’re still playing the game, still waging the war.

Her fingers fumble with my belt. My hand palms her tit. She sighs as my mouth claims her neck. Jesus Christ. The woman tastes like heaven. Like a f*cking addiction I don’t want to quit.

My hands dip inside the waistband of her skirt. She pulls down my zipper. My fingertips touch her strip of tight curls, part her slit then slide down the line of her *.

Now that? That’s heaven. The heat of her. How wet she is. I dive right in without warning. Fingers buried to the hilt.

She cries out. Not a name. Not a word. Just a sound.

And then she tightens around me. Grips my fingers as she drenches my hand.

There’s no way in f*cking hell I’m going to be able to stop myself. Fuck the plan. Screw the interview. Make them wait.

And when she wraps her entire hand around my cock and slides all the way down, I freeze. With my fingers still buried in her *, and her heat against my hand, I’m a f*cking goner.

She works her hand back up, does a little twisting motion over my head, and assaults the nerves there in the best f*cking way possible.

I close my eyes. Accept the pleasure. Groan in ecstasy.

And then I hear her chuckle. Know she’s playing me at my game but f*ck if I’m not enjoying how she just took the upper hand. What can I say? This woman has her hand wrapped around my cock. It’s been eight days since I’ve been inside her.

Eight.

Whole.

Days.

Fuck.

I grit my teeth in restraint. Hold back—the Fucking hell, Saylor, I want to groan out, and try to process thoughts that she’s slowly erasing with each stroke.

Move, Hayes.

A slide up. A roll of her wrist. A tightening of her fingers. A scrape of nails on the underside of my balls.

Don’t let her make you talk.

My head falls back, but my fingers are inside of her. A reminder to her of what I plan on claiming. Taking. Using to my advantage.

My. God. She. Owns. Me.

It’s only when she shifts, when my fingers slip from her * and a throaty laugh falls from her lips that I realize she’s dropping to her knees.

To suck my cock. To wrap her lips around it. Use her tongue. And take what I give her.

She’s winning the war.

I have to step back from the ledge. Do what’s sacrilege: reject the blowjob that I know will rock my world. And make me talk. Because put a hot, wet mouth and a skillful tongue on a man’s cock and there is no controlling what he says or how tight he’ll fist your hair.

With a pained groan, I put my hand to her shoulder and push her against the wall to stop her descent. Her eyes—so f*cking gorgeous beneath desire drugged lids—flash up and lock on mine. The smirk plays on her lips. Her determination to make me talk is written all over her face.

So I hold her there—with both my eyes and my hand to her shoulder—and slip my fingers back into her. I start to work her into a frenzy. With my fingers and thumb. In and out and over her clit. Slide and stroke and flick and rub. Then all over again.

All the while her gaze is on mine. Her lips part. Her hips buck harder into my hand. Her fingers dig deeper into my shoulder. Her breath becomes labored.

I pick up my pace when I feel her * start to tighten around me. It’s now or never. So I work the spot within I know she likes. The one that makes her lose her mind.

“Oh. God,” she pants into the room.

It’s the sound of victory. The lighter caught flame.

And I stop all movement instantly.

I stand to full height as she stares at me—shoulders sagged against the wall, eyes wildly sexy, cheeks flushed, chest heaving—and smirk. Then casually glance down to my watch before focusing on tucking my rock-hard dick back into my slacks and zipping over it. Carefully.

“You bastard,” she whispers—equal parts amusement, frustration, and disbelief.

And f*ck if I don’t feel the same way when I look up at her. I work my tongue in my cheek as we stare at each other. My need for her so strong it f*cking hurts. And then with a nod of my head, I walk out, and shut the door behind me without ever saying a word.

I’ve only walked away from Saylor two times before. The first time was brutal because I never came back. This second time is just as brutal, but at least I know I’m coming back.