‘You’re playing with fire, little girl.’ As he growls those words, he allows me to step flush into him, our lips just a kiss apart. My nipples pebble under the weight of my hoodie, yearning for him to slide the zipper just another couple of inches.
Aching for his eyes on me, I crave him like nothing that can be good for me. Crave him like the air I breathe.
‘Maybe I deserve to be burned.’
He kisses me then, his lips soft, but his kiss still punishing. A kiss of flicking tongue and grazing teeth. Of fingers hard against my hips. It’s a kiss of possession, and as he fucks my mouth with his tongue, I moan like only a woman who loves it can.
‘I can’t get enough of you.’ His breath blows against my neck, hoarse and raspy. As he pulls back, his chest rises and falls steadily, the muscles in his shoulders taut and defined under the fabric of his white shirt.
One hand still on my hip, he lifts my hand between us, kissing my fingertips before he twirls me away from him to pull my body flush against his.
‘This is your last chance, little girl.’
‘I want this.’ Like a defiant child, my whisper is demanding as a pulse beats between my legs. I want this. All of this. I want his anger and eyes. His hate and his love. His cock between my legs.
His hands slip around to my front, pulling the zipper the rest of the way, and with every click of teeth, fire rises in my veins.
‘You must be a glutton for punishment.’
‘Maybe I am.’ My tone is provocative. Sultry. ‘Or maybe I’m just a glutton for you.’
‘I think you’re greedy for attention, desperate for the eyes of an audience to caress your skin.’ His murmurs are harsh in my ear, sandpapery promises whispering against my skin. ‘Were you wet when you walked off the stage? I bet you were, little girl. I bet you were dripping.’
This isn’t about revenge. This is a game. A game with no losers, only winners, and as his fingertips trail between my breasts, I take my chance.
‘I danced for you. Imagined you were in the room. I touched myself with your eyes on my body as my need for you made me wet.’
‘You wanted people to watch you.’
‘Us,’ I whisper hoarsely. ‘I wanted people to watch us fuck.’
‘Show me, little girl.’ Our gazes connect through the darkened window, the lights from the street below casting the room behind us into darkness. My heart rate spikes as Mac wraps his hand around the length of my ponytail, pulling my head to the side. As he licks the soft flesh of my neck, my eyes roll closed.
‘Keep them open.’ There’s a feverous tone to his words as he pulls my head back, our lips meeting in a frantic kiss.
‘Please,’ I whisper, pushing against him, not sure what I’m pleading for, not sure how he can be so hard yet so reluctant. Is the idea of hurting me turning him on? Or is he just as desperate for me as I am for him?
Mac flexes into me, and I whimper. It’s such a tiny, insignificant sound, though it lengthens into a libidinous moan as he pushes his booted foot between my own.
‘Pull your pants down,’ he rasps, but when I try to bend, I can’t move for his fist in my hair.
‘I want you so badly, but I can’t do this easy.’ His words are low and throaty and heavy with warning. A warning I don’t heed. ‘You don’t want this. Not for your first time.’
‘I don’t want you to stop. I need you inside me.’
‘In this window?’ he growls. My eyes rise to the bank of glass, the balcony and the buildings beyond. If I look closely enough, I can see into several living rooms—a couple of bedrooms, window dressings open and lights turned on. Could they see me? Watch me dance like Mac’s marionette?
‘You like the sound of that.’ There’s a hint of surprise in his words. A measure of taunt. But mostly, there’s pleasure. Desire and want.
A pounding pulse hammers between my legs as he yanks on my ponytail, resting his forehead on my shoulder, and with one heavily expelled breath, he says something that sends my pulse into overdrive.
‘Pull down your pants. Show the world what’s fucking mine.’
Unzipped hoodie, knickers and yoga pants around my knees, nipples rimming my bra, and Mac’s hands on me. The words might not paint the sexiest of pictures, but as he spins me around, pushing my bottom against the cool glass, I know I’m wetter than I’ve ever been.
‘Who does this belong to?’ he murmurs, getting down on his knees in front of me.
‘I-it’s yours,’ I pant, my palms flat against the glass.
