Lovegame(43)

“Your answers were all part of the same question. I was being generous in turning off two lights.”

“But those aren’t the rules.” Determined not to let him have too much of an upper hand, I start to move back from the window, to let him know that I’m not a pushover. But he refuses to let me. Instead, he keeps me pinned in place, one hand on the nape of my neck while the other rests just above my ass.

“The rules,” he says as he nips sharply at my bare shoulder, “are that you answer honestly and completely, not that you make me drag every sentence out of you.”

“You didn’t say that before.”

“I’m saying it now.” His hips are pressed so tight against me that I can feel the outline of his very hard cock against my lower back.

“You can’t just change the rules like that.”

“You forget I’m the one in control.” He presses his lips to the hollow where my neck meets my shoulder. “I can do whatever I want.” Slides his mouth up my neck to the sensitive spot behind my ear.

With every word he speaks, my skin grows more responsive and my head more muddled. I should make an argument here, should call foul on his arbitrary rule changes. But the words won’t come. Nothing does but wave after wave of pleasure. He blows hot air against my ear and I shiver, moan. Arch my neck to give him better access.

He doesn’t take advantage of it, though. Instead, he waits for what feels like forever—but is probably only a few seconds—mouth poised above my cheek, breath hot against my skin.

I’m close to begging for something, anything, when he finally asks the next question. “The buzz is you’ll be nominated for an Oscar for Belladonna. What do you think about that?”

“I don’t think about it.”

“I don’t believe you.” I go rigid at the words, but he doesn’t move to take any more of my clothes off. Instead, his fingers delve beneath my shirt, circle my belly button before gently stroking over my waist and abdomen. “You’ve been passed over for what most figured were guaranteed nominations twice in the last few years. You have to be wondering if this year—this role—is the one that will do it for you.”

“I’m not.”

“Bullshit.” Before I can even assimilate his answer, he hooks his fingers in the waistband of my yoga pants and yanks them down, hard and fast.

I gasp as the cold air hits me—and as my bare legs bump against the even colder glass. Ian is crowding me now, his front pressed tight to my back. My front pressed tight to the window. And then his hand is there, between my legs. His fingers stroking along my silk-covered labia. His breath hot against my ear.

“Spread your legs,” he tells me, and I do. I can’t stop myself. I am putty in his hands, my body determined to yield to his every wish and my brain too fuzzy to even contemplate stopping him.

“Do you think you’ll be nominated for an Oscar?” he whispers even as his fingers delve beneath my panties.

“No.” As the single syllable finally escapes, I let my head fall back against his shoulder. My fingers claw at the unyielding glass and my hips arch almost desperately against his hand. There’s a part of me that still balks at giving him this kind of control over my body—over me—but the rest cares only about the pleasure snaking through me as his thumb rubs over my clit and his fingers thrust deep inside of me.

“You should,” he says, right before he nips at my ear, hard. And just that easy I go over an edge I didn’t even realize I was close to, my body convulsing around his fingers as orgasm slams through me, quick and brutal.

I’m left gasping for air, body heavy and head so light it feels like I could float away. Instinctively, I turn toward him, wanting comfort. Wanting…something I know instinctively only he can give me.

But he pulls away—pulls his fingers out of me and his body away from mine until the only place we’re connected is his hand at the small of my back. “Not yet,” he murmurs, stepping far enough away that I can no longer feel the heat radiating from his body.

And then even his hand is gone and I’m left alone, tears in my eyes and body sliding down the glass as my trembling knees finally give way.

A harsh click echoes through the silent room, followed immediately by a shift in light against my closed eyelids. Oh right. My muddled brain puts the pieces together. Ian hasn’t left me. He was just turning off another lamp.

Seconds later he’s back, crouching next to me. Sliding his hands around my waist. Pulling me back to my feet. Pressing me once again against the window.

I shudder, overwhelmed by…everything.

By his hands around my waist.

By the aftershocks of pleasure still working their way through me.

By this whole situation.

For a moment I think of saying no. Of calling a halt. But if I do that, he won’t touch me any more and though I know I should want that—I did want that just this morning—right now, it’s the most terrifying thought in the world.

And so I say nothing, do nothing, but stand where he places me. Where he arranges me.

My arms are down this time, hands by my hips, palms pressed against the glass. My legs are spread wide, my head down and forehead once again resting on the window as my hair covers most of my face.

I wait for him to step back, wait for him to leave me again. Brace for it, even. But this time, he stays where he is—one hand on my shoulder, the other on my hip—as if he knows just how far gone I am. As if he knows that it is only his touch that’s keeping me from floating far, far away.