She stiffens in my hold, as if waking up from a daze. I lift my hand slightly, hovering over hers, giving her an out. When she doesn’t move away, I guide my hand back over hers, shifting ushigher up her waist, stopping when our thumbs lightly rake across the underside of her breast.
She lets out a breathy moan at the small contact, my other hand releasing her hip. The momentary loss of contact is almost painful before I close her other hand in mine, splaying us out across her lower stomach, fingers dancing together along the waistband of her leggings.
“Tell me you don’t want me to do it. Tell me what you want, and it’s yours,” I breathe against her.
“It doesn’t matter what I want,” she pants, melting against my hold as I use our hands together to tease her.
“It’s the only thing that matters.” I lean farther into her, letting her feel what she’s doing to me, how hard I am for her, throbbing against the thin fabric of my athletic shorts. I want her to feel how badly I need her. It’s driving me crazy to have even this pathetic barrier between us.
“I don’t care if you do it,” she shakes her head wildly. “I don’t care,” she repeats the words. I laugh into her neck at her attempt to lie, the sound low and dark.
I shift our hands laid out on her stomach lower as I repeat her words, bringing our hands lower and lower towards the apex of her thighs. “You don’t care.”
I use her own hand to cup her pussy over her leggings, the material damp as we shift lower. I release a loud groan from deep in my chest. It vibrates through her, and I can feel her heartbeat pick up speed where my thumb is still making small circles against her breast.
“Is this how wet you get when you don’t care? Fuck Harper, you’re drenched. Is this how much you don’t care about me?” I ask as my hand moves higher again, grinding our fingers down against where her clit throbs.
She doesn’t answer me this time. I don’t think she can—her eyes have fluttered closed, and she’s leaning her whole body into mine, feeling where my hard cock is pinned against herlower back. The pressure she’s creating against me makes my eyes roll into the back of my head for a minute before I can collect myself.
“Or are you this wet because you know the power you have over me?” I rock slightly into her as I simultaneously grind our hands against her pussy, not giving her enough pressure to get off, but enough to drip for me. “All you need to do is tell me what you want. Only one little word to tell me who I belong to, who I dance for.” I nip her ear, and she moans.
“Make me yours, Harper. Tell me you want this, and I’ll make you see stars.” She’s trying to subtly shift her hips to get that last bit of pressure she needs. Indecision is written on her features—stay stubborn and curb her desire, or admit she wants this and find her release.
I drop my hands swiftly, taking the pleasure with me. Harper’s eyes pop open as I drop to a squat behind her, running one hand along the outside of her leg to trail up her body as I rise back up behind her. I hold her steady with one hand, traveling up her body to circle her throat before reaching up to hold her jaw.
I tip her head up to meet my gaze, looking into the depths of her sunshine eyes. I want to give her everything. She just needs to let me.
I press her boxing gloves I scooped off the ground into the center of her chest. Her hands coming up absentmindedly to hold what’s been placed against her.
I lean my head down to breathe her in, speaking just a breath away from her lips. “When you’re ready.”
I release her jaw and step back, turning to head for the door, scooping up my bag on the way. I can’t stop my forward motion, or I might not have the willpower to hold back from finishing what I started. I open the door to leave and pause, looking back to where I left Harper. She hasn’t moved an inch, hands gripping her gloves to her chest, eyes still closed andbreathing heavily. I stand there for a moment to watch her collect herself. Her eyes open, and she looks down at the gloves in her hands that replaced my own.
I’m out the door before seeing if she watches me leave, no doubt in my mind that this time, when she starts to punch the bag again, I will be the only face she sees.
11
HARPER
“Iwant every piece of dirt you can get on Cassie Harlin,” I shout into the security bullpen where Sadie is standing over the shoulder of a junior employee pointing to some bit of jumbled letters and numbers on a screen.
“What?” Sadie asks, a furrow forming between her brows.
“Get me everything on her. I want to know where she goes, who she sees,everything. I want to know the name of the guy who picks up her dog’s shit.”
I’m fuming, my chest heaves with each breath like I just finished a marathon.
Sadie gives me a once-over and then gives a quick, sharp nod as she straightens up. “Clear the room.” She has never been loud, but when she wants to get a point across, she has never needed to be. Her bubbly personality and demeanor make it even more shocking when she speaks with an authority that would take others years to master.
There is a stunned confusion, some awkward shifting of seats. “Now.” Sadie says, with a clap of her hands for emphasis, then starts making a shooing motion with her hands towards the door.
Senior and junior security analysts stand quickly from their seats and file out of the room one by one. Sadie hasn’t moved, standing across from me in the bullpen, one hand on her hip and the other holding her up as she leans against the desk. Our physical features have always been similar—her hair long, but a lighter shade of brown than my own. Our genetics didn’t play favorites in many areas, but I have always been jealous of her eyes. While mine can’t seem to pick a single shade, hers are like warm honey, softening her face and perpetually giving her an ethereal glow.
Despite how similar we look, you would never be able to tell we are sisters. While I’m dressed head to toe in black, she’s wearing light yellow slacks with a light pink blouse tucked in and pointed pink flats. And of course, I can’t forget the signature bow pinning some of her hair back. I can’t see the color from here, but I can almost guarantee it’shappy.
Thank God she’s rarely on the floor.
From the stage floor and the patron’s perspective, the wood and glass-framed shelves that line the back of the bar are backed with a reflective mirror, decorated with a random display of alcohol bottles. It looks classy, elegant, and refined. And it’s all smoke and mirrors.
