Out of Love(42)

He flipped open the pizza box and folded a piece in half before taking a monstrous bite while offering me nothing but a shrug.

“I’m going to start charging you for sex. You tell me something personal about yourself, and I’ll give you some of this.” I waved a hand up and down my body as I backed up toward the door. “And here you thought I wasn’t a whore who charged for sex.” I winked.

“Where’re you going?” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“I told you. Ten o’clock curfew.”

“I hate that your dad has that kind of power over you.”

“He’d say the same thing about you.” I grinned.

“Stay.” He scratched his bare skin below his navel, drawing my attention to his happy trail.

Not fair.

“Nope.” I shook my head but failed to keep my gaze away from his hand.

“Oatmeal chocolate chip.”

Tearing my attention from his partially fastened jeans back to his face, I squinted. “What?”

“My favorite dessert is oatmeal chocolate chip cookies.”

“Really? Huh … wouldn’t have guessed that. Thanks. See you in the morning.”

“Livy …” He drew out my name like a warning.

“I have to go.” I wrinkled my nose.

“I just paid for something.”

“Noted. The bank is closed. But you can make a withdrawal tomorrow.” Turning, I opened the door.

“Orange zest.” Wylder’s voice closed in behind me. Just his nearness made me shiver … made my pulse pound harder and faster. “My mom used to make oatmeal chocolate chip cookies. And I didn’t know why I loved them more than anything I’d ever had at a bakery or friend’s house. Then she told me her secret ingredient—orange zest.” He pressed his naked chest to my back.

I reacted by leaning forward, the door closing under my weight. “Wylder …”

“That’s two things about me. You made the rules. I expect you to follow them. Clothes off, Liv …” His hands pressed to the door above my head. I turned in the cage of his body towering over mine. His stance did all kinds of perfect things to his torso, including forcing his loose jeans down another inch.

I wasn’t sure who had the most formidable expression—Jackson Knight or Slade Wylder. All I knew for certain was both men were playing me. Dad and his guilt trip. Slade and his … everything.

My hands pulled at the button to my shorts as I held his gaze, a slight bend at the corners of his mouth signaling his pleasure at winning.

In his dreams …

“On your knees, Wylder.”

One of his thick, perfectly shaped brows lifted at my demand.

“Knees. Wylder.” I kept a poker face.

Being … him … he drew out the standoff for nearly a minute before taking one knee and then a second knee. My hands parked at my sides, refusing to do anything else. He slid down my shorts and panties, lifting my foot to free them from one leg. Instead of releasing my leg, he lifted it over his shoulder. My hands pressed flat to the door at my back to steady myself.

He wasn’t gentle or teasing.

“Fuuuck!” I sucked in a sharp breath and held it as his mouth attacked me. My fingers drove into his hair with the same force his tongue speared into me.

He bit my clit. I yelled.

I dug my nails into his scalp. He growled.

One of his hands kept my left leg spread open on his shoulder while his other hand gripped my ass.

He denied me again and again, brutally taking me to the edge then pulling back until I wanted to cry and kill him.

Oh the stars …

He may have been physically on his knees, but there was little question as to who surrendered … who had control.

My head fell back onto the door, jaw slack, eyes closed. He eased my leg from his shoulder, holding my hips for a few seconds until I found my balance. Then he worked my panties and shorts back up my legs. I could have helped him, but I didn’t. Wylder seemed to know what he was doing. And I … well, I was still drunk on the way he made me feel.

“Oops …” He grabbed my wrist to look at my watch as he stood. “Ten-oh-five. My bad. Please tell your dad it was my fault.”

I remembered Jessica’s words. “Sometimes our greatest strength is to know when to surrender.” Snarky, arrogant, sass-filled comebacks flooded my thoughts. He had one goal … to prove he had more influence over my actions than my dad.

Maybe that night he did, but I didn’t let him make it about my dad. Wylder told me something personal. Cookies? Yes. But sometimes the simple things defined us more than tangled webs of scars and bruises.

Instead of taking the bait, I slid my hands into the back pockets of his jeans and pressed my lips to his chest over his heart. “I like peanut butter cookies. Rolled in lots of sugar. And someday I’m going to be president. Unless I meet a nice, rich guy who buys me an island and lets me surf every day for the rest of my life. Night, Wylder.”

*

“He’s making it hard for me to like him,” Dad said from his bed when I eased open the hotel room door. The TV screen illuminated his tattooed chest from his propped-up position on his bed, and the residual aroma of microwave popcorn lingered in the air—the frigid hotel room air.