“Sure, but think about that. Protecting me is worth millions of dollars to him, so he asked the best man for the job to do it. I’m going to trust that.”
“You shouldn’t trust it.”
“Too late.” She shifts her hips, hands on my shoulders, face inches from mine. “If I’m in danger. You’re my best chance at surviving it. Running isn’t.”
The intensity in her eyes is overwhelming. Like she's trying to will me into seeing myself the way she does. I’ve got to admit. The shit feels good to be seen as something other than a fuck up or an obstacle.
"You're going to ruin me," I say roughly, my dick hardening behind the zipper of my jeans.
“Good, you need a little ruining." Her thumbs brush my cheekbones. “And you need to relax.”
"Peyton—"
Her hands find the buckle of my belt.
“Kiss me, Blake."
It's not a request. It's a challenge. A dare. And I'm done pretending I have the strength to resist her. I kiss her like I'm memorizing the taste of her. Like I need to remember every detail…because I do. The way she gasps when I bite her lower lip, the way her fingers dig into my shoulders, the way she melts against me like her body’s made for me.
Almost as if we're made for each other.
She tastes like coffee and something sweeter, maybe caramel. Her body fits against mine perfectly, all curves and warmth and soft skin that I want to explore inch by inch.
"Blake." My name on her lips sounds like benediction and sin combined.
I pull back just enough to see her face. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes dark with want, and her lips are swollen from my mouth.
God, she's fucking beautiful.
"We should stop," I say, even though I know it’s a damn lie to myself. I’m not going to stop.
She kisses me hard, as if she’s challenging me to stop her. "But I want this,” she whispers against my skin. “And doesn’t the client get what the client needs?”
The last thread of my control snaps. I stand, lifting her with me. She wraps her legs around my waist, never breaking the kiss, and I carry her toward the bedroom like I'm racing against time.
Because I am.
Tomorrow everything changes. We’ll walk into Kingsley's trap, and I just hope I’m smart enough to figure out how we both survive it. But tonight she's safe, she’s mine, and nothing else matters.
I kick the bedroom door closed behind us. Then toss her down on the bed. It’s in this moment that I wish we were in a Four Seasons Hotel Suite or at least my actual apartment. She deserves to be fucked in luxury, not this sparsely put together piece of shit safehouse, but my dick wants what it wants. And it definitely wants Peyton Quinn with her thighs spread and her eyes on me.
She looks up at me with those same brown eyes that trust me more than I deserve, but see me more clearly than anyone ever has. And for once, in my adult life, I stop thinking about consequences and responsibilities and all the reasons why this may be the dumbest moment of saying “fuck it” in my life.
Her voice is soft now, vulnerable. “I need you, Blake." She’s already pulling her shirt over her head before I reach the bed. I let it fall to the floor, hands at her hips as I take a second to look at her, really look at her, and it does something messed up to my chest how hungry I am for her, how badly I want to devour her pussy and have her come apart for me.
And only me.
For some strange fucking reason I start to think about the “others”. The other men who have touched her, possibly been inside her, and I want to erase every trace of them. I’ve never cared about shit like that before because hell, who am I to question a grown woman’s sexual past, but this feels different. Everything about Peyton is so fucking different than what I’m used to. It’s thrown me completely off my game.
I roll her under me, pinning her wrists above her head with one hand. She grins, breathless, and hooks a leg around my hip to pull me closer. With my free hand, I palm her breast. It’s full, warm, and already so sensitive that she gasps when I run my thumb over the darkened brown nipple.
“You like that?” I murmur, watching her face while I do it again, slower. Her eyes flutter, lashes fanning over her cheeks, and she arches into my touch, chasing it. I drag my mouth down her throat, biting gently at the place where her pulse stutters. I want to taste all of her, but first, I need her to beg for it.
Her hands twist in my grip, but I hold her easily, letting her feel the difference in our strength. She shivers, not from fear, but from the tension of being wanted, of being held. I move down, kissing my way across the slope of her chest, nipping at the soft skin until she whimpers.
“Blake—” She’s already desperate, her hips grinding up to meet me, and it’s fucking perfect. I want her like this, unraveling for me, begging even if she doesn’t have the words for it yet.
I push her arms higher, catching both wrists in one hand, and move my free hand down, slow, skimming the ribcage, and the flat of her stomach just above the waistline of her jeans. She’s looking up at me in a way I wish I could capture in a bottle, like I’m the motherfucking man.
