"I want you," I admit, heightened by desire and tequila. "I've always wanted you."
Something fierce flashes in his eyes. He captures my wrists in one hand, drawing them above my head and holding them there as he kisses me again, deeper this time, claiming.
"If we do this," he says, breaking the kiss to look at me intently, "I need you to understand something. I don't do half measures, Violet. If you're mine, you're mine completely."
There's something in his tone, something dominant and possessive that should send me running, especially after what I just went through with Derek. But this is different. Santiago—Whip—isn't trying to control me. He's offering me a choice.
"I understand," I tell him, and I mean it.
He studies my face for a moment, then releases my wrists. "Stand up," he says, stepping back to give me room.
I slide off the desk on shaky legs, confused by the sudden change. Has he changed his mind?
"Turn around," he instructs, voice gentle but firm.
I do as he says, and I feel him move behind me, his hands sliding around my waist, pulling me back against his chest. His lips find my ear.
"I want to do this right," he murmurs. "Not when you're hurt and scared and running from something." His hands move up to cup my breasts through my bra, and I gasp, leaning back into him. "When I finally have you in my bed, I want it to be because you walked in here with a clear head, knowing exactly what you were getting into."
Part of me wants to argue with him—I know what I want, regardless of the day I've had—but another part appreciates how he can control himself. It's a kind of respect I'm not used to receiving.
He turns me in his arms, tilting my chin up with one finger. "That doesn't mean we can't enjoy ourselves a little tonight, though."
Before I can ask what he means, he's kissing me again, backing me toward the bed. The backs of my knees hit the mattress, and I sink down onto it. Whip follows, his body covering mine as he lays me back against the pillows.
His weight feels good on top of me, grounding. One of his hands finds mine, pinning it gently beside my head as he kisses down my neck again, lower this time to the valley between my breasts. His free hand slides beneath me, finding the clasp of my bra with practiced ease.
"Okay?" he asks, waiting for my nod before unhooking it.
He draws back just enough to help me out of it, and then he's looking down at me with such desire in his eyes that I feel myself blushing.
"Perfect," he breathes, lowering his head to take one nipple into his mouth.
I arch off the bed, a moan escaping me as his tongue circles the sensitive peak. His hand finds my other breast, fingers teasing and rolling the nipple until both are tight and aching.
When he sucks particularly hard, I cry out, my hands flying to his shoulders, nails digging in. He raises his head, eyes dark with desire.
"Hands above your head," he commands softly. "Don't move them unless I say so."
I swallow hard, heart racing, and slowly lift my arms over my head, gripping the pillow beneath me. There's something thrilling about this surrender, this giving over of control.
"Good girl," he praises again, and the words send a pulse of electricity straight between my legs. "Now stay still for me."
He returns his attention to my breasts, alternating between gentle kisses and sharp little nips that have me writhing beneath him despite his instruction to stay still. When his hand slides down my stomach to the waistband of my jeans, my hips lift instinctively.
"Eager," he comments, smiling against my skin. His fingers work the button of my jeans, then the zipper, but he doesn't pull them down. Instead, his hand slides inside, over my panties, and he groans when he feels how wet I am through the thin fabric.
"All this for me?" he murmurs.
"Yes," I gasp as his fingers press against me through the cotton. "Just for you."
He works me through the fabric, building a rhythm that has me panting, straining against the restraint of keeping my hands above my head. Just when I think I might break that rule, his hand withdraws.
I make a sound of protest, and he chuckles, low and dangerous. "Patience," he says, shifting down the bed. He hooks his fingers in the waistband of my jeans, looking up at me for permission. I nod frantically, lifting my hips to help him pull them down.
Once my jeans are gone, leaving me in just my panties, he settles between my legs, pressing kisses to my inner thighs. Each one moves higher, closer to where I need him most, but he takes his time, making me wait for it.
"Whip," I plead, unable to keep still. "Please."
