“Like you mean it.”
George stilled, eyes hurting, lungs tight, breath scraping roughly against her throat.
“I do mean it, Clay.”
“Fuck.” His eyes slid back and forth over hers, and something passed between them. He dipped his hips, letting his erection slide against her panties; even through the cotton, she was wet.
Kissing again, crazed, her hands all over him, despite his protests, stroking taut shoulders, enjoying the thick muscles of his arms, and somehow managing to avoid the places where his skin was chafed and burned from the laser.
“Good. So fucking good,” he muttered hotly against the side of her face as their sexes came together, the rhythm perfect, the feel utterly explicit.
And then, his underwear was shoved down and hers pushed aside, and George groaned at the feel of him, there. Slick and sliding and swollen and, Jesus, her breasts were sensitive, tight and painful and absolutely dying for his touch.
It’d never been like this. Never. Not in high school with Dylan Dean, not in her marriage bed. Never.
He leaned back, his eyes glittering in the lamplight. Clay grasped one of her legs and lifted it, bit the calf, and let his eyes travel from her face to her sex, where they stayed to watch him work and work and work through all that wetness her body had created.
Never before, she thought, drinking in the sight of him, her body dying for more of a taste.
“Fuck me, Clay,” she said and, with satisfaction, watched as the intense focus in his features fell apart.
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17
“Stay there,” Clay said and watched with satisfaction as she complied. He got up, eager as a goddamn kid, yanked his shorts all the way off, and reached for the plastic bag he’d brought in from his truck. And Christ, her eyes on him made him thicker, harder. He ripped the bag open and pulled a zip tie from it, then stilled when he saw her eyes change. From lust to curiosity but, he was gratified to note, no fear.
“What are you doing?” She sat up.
“I have to stop hurting you.”
“What? You’re not—”
“I almost fucking choked you last night, George. Not gonna do that again. It’s the only way I can make sure.” The tightness in his belly felt like guilt, shame, excitement. He wanted her, but he couldn’t risk disappearing into his head again, coming to only to find he’d hurt her. The bite mark still visible on her neck was proof enough of the damage he could do.
She caught his eyes, and for a few seconds, he could see her decide.
“So, if you’re all trussed up…” she said, an evil glint in her eye.
He pulled the tie on, hard, and tightened it with his teeth. “Get a condom. Put it on me.”
Without a word, she leaned back to grab one, but she just held it in her hand and waited.
“How’s your back?”
“Fine.”
“Can you lie on it?”
“Come on. Please just—”
“I’m in charge?”
Oh fuck. Those words. “Yeah.” He swallowed the instinct that didn’t want to let him give up power and settled onto the bed, allowing the excitement to take over.
“Whatever I want?” she asked, clearly into this, whatever it was.
“Yeah. Like when we’re in your office. I’m up on one of those tables.”
