“Too bad for you, I don't fucking care how fast you come,” I remind her. “In fact, you said I'm a disappointment, so I guess I'd better not turn you into a liar.”
I pinch that sweet bud again, then soothe it with my thumb over the tip.
“Disappointed yet?” I ask as she grits her teeth and rotates her hips against my hand.
“Fuck, Wyatt.” Her hand falls from my shirt, and she reaches behind her to grip the edge of the desk.
“Such a good girl, chasing that feeling you know only I can give you.” My fingers never stop moving as I kick the chair away from her desk and nudge her legs as wide as they’ll go with her jeans still clinging to her hips and my big hand buried in her panties. The new angle lets me sink ever deeper into her pussy. She buries her teeth into her lower lip to hold back a scream as she starts to clench around my fingers.
“Don’t tell me you’re close to coming already.” I huff out a laugh. “So desperate for me. How embarrassing.”
I brace for another slap or at least a hissed insult, but when I lock eyes with her again, all of that sharp malice is gone, leaving only hunger. It trembles on her lips and brightens her cheeks. She’s so beautiful that I almost forget myself and claim her mouth with mine. Instead, I pull back and watch as sweat dampens her hair, my dick so hard that I’m worried it’ll tear through my jeans. The pump and drag of my fingers has her on the edge, so I don’t change a thing about the pressure, the speed, the angle.
“Come on, honey. Come for the man you hate,” I gasp out, hoping she can’t tell how much I need this too.
Her labored breaths keep pace with the squelch of my fingers. And then finally, fucking finally, I get to watch this woman detonate like a bomb. Shuddering and gasping, her mouth open and her pussy clamping down on my fingers like a vice. When she digs her nails into my sides, I damn near come along with her from the pain and the pleasure of watching her lose her mind.
She comes back to me slowly. A euphoric smile covers her face as she musters the strength to lift her head and straighten up from the desk.
“I…” Her breathing’s still ragged as she looks up at me with glassy eyes and laughs. “Jesus, Wyatt.”
That soft, delighted sound has me abandoning the whole insult kink, and I grin back at her.“Those other guys must’ve been the disappointing ones.”
Or maybe she's just been waiting for you this whole time.
It’s a dangerous thought, but it’s one I can’t bring myself to fling away. Not when she’s looking at me with that sleepy, satisfied expression. She’s the woman I met under the mistletoe, and I’m surprised by the burn of tears in the back of my eyes at the sight of it.
Within the span of two heartbeats, the hunger’s back in her eyes, and she steps toward me, her fingers landing on my waistband and gliding downward to trail over my cock.
“Ffffuck,” I grind out, my head tipping forward at the unfathomably good feeling of her gripping me.
“Do I have to insult you to get you off, too?” Her voice is hoarse, and my cock jumps under her touch. Then everything in me freezes when her other hand slips under my T-shirt and starts to travel up.
“Wait.” I stiffen, and her hands fall to her sides.
“What’s wrong?” she teases. “Need me to call you a liar? An asshole? An arrogant know-it-all? I’ve got a million saved up.” Then I damn near black out when she lowers herself to her knees like I just fucking pictured, grinning up at me. “I’d better get them all out now. My mouth’s going to be busy in a second.”
When she starts to lift the hem of my shirt to reach for my zipper, another wave of dizziness hits me, but this one comes with a racing heart and a ringing in my ears. My hands start to shake, and I shove them into my pockets as I take three big steps back, sucking air into my lungs.
“Wy?” she asks, but all I can do is shake my head.
“I can’t.”
The scar that cuts across my abdomen isn’t a raw, red gash anymore. But even healed, it’s an ugly reminder of how sick I was during my slow recovery and how close Mom came to dying too. I haven’t been with anyone since the operation, not even Reese, and the thought of showing that kind of weakness to CJ has nausea climbing up the back of my throat.
It’s a panic attack. I know this. But I can’t fucking tell her that, not when she jumps on any vulnerability she can find.
Like she’s doing now.
“What do you mean you can’t?” That happy expression is gone, replaced with confusion.
Praying that she won’t see that I’m ten seconds away from turning into a complete, sweaty, shaking mess, I keep my voice as steady and normal as I can make it.
“Sorry. I meant I don’t want to.”
“Fucking what?” She screeches it, apparently no longer caring who hears what in the main room. “So this was a… a game?”
The hurt that flashes in her eyes hurts me too. If I were braver, I’d tell her everything—Mom’s long illness; the surgical pain and recurrent infections; the repeat hospitalizations; the weakness and the weight loss. Then there was Reese’s growing distance, the stress at work, and the strain of Hollis’s resentment. For months, nothing’s been stable or normal or comfortable. I’m just starting to feel like myself again, and I’m actually scared that a rejection from this woman could knock me back to the worst of those days.
