She makes a small sound, turning her cheek into my palm, nuzzling like a cat into its owner’s hand.
‘That’s my girl.’ Pleasure hums through my chest. ‘Show me how much you missed me.’
Her body stiffens. Her eyes flare into mine. Fear threading through the desire. She hates being called out on it – well, join the club, Baby Girl. I hate it too.
But I’ve lived it. For almost three fucking weeks, I’ve walked that hell.
It was supposed to be an exercise in restraint. A test to prove I could do it. Deliver what she needs and walk away…stay away, survive… before I signed.
And I did.
I don’t dwell on the fact that it almost broke me in the process.
Now I’m here, ready to give her what she wants, my name on the dotted line, and take what I’m owed. Her. Her mouth. Her body. And I want it all before the night is out.
‘You look good on your knees.’
‘So do you,’ she hits back.
A slow grin curls my lips. ‘Make the most of that memory, because it’s the last time you’ll see me there without paying up in return, Baby Girl.’
A tremor runs through her, and I know it’s the pet name as much as the drag of my thumb over her lips, teasing them into the perfect ‘O’.
‘Understood?’
She nods and I tease my hand lower, feel her pulse jump beneath my palm as I follow the line of her throat, her collarbone, the seam of her dress…
‘Words, Tay.’
‘Yes,’ she whispers, so obedient, so true.
Her breaths quicken as I ease her sleeves down, sliding them over her pliant hands. The fabric slips away easily, pooling at her waist, revealing black lace that’s more tease than barrier. The crown of her nipples obvious beneath the pattern, hardened peaks pushing through. My mouth goes dry. My balls tighten to the point of pain.
Three weeks of wanting.
Three weeks of imagining.
Three weeks of fucking my fist to take the edge off and never coming close.
‘You’ve been thinking about me,’ I rasp: a statement, not a question.
Her lips part, but no sound emerges. I can practically hear her heart hammering, feel its frantic rhythm in the air between us.
‘I know you have.’ My thumb rolls over one laced nipple, and she jerks, breath sharp. I bite back a hiss. She’s so responsive, it kills me. Kills me and feeds me and makes me cravemore. ‘Every hour. Every night. Wondering where I was. If I’d changed my mind.’
Her breath catches, giving her away, the true source of her panic: the contract, the baby, not me.
And I’m fine with that. Becausethisstill exists: the want in her face, the desire I put there.
‘I wanted you to wonder.’
A lie.
‘I wanted you a little desperate.’
A half-truth.
‘I wanted you to ache for me.’
