Page 44 of Hard to Hold

The muscles in his neck are taut. His body an incredible work of art, but it’s his eyes that own every part of me. The look in them and the way they look at me.

“I think you’re going to hurt me, Lennox, and yet, I’m a glutton for punishment.” He murmurs the words through a knowing smile before rubbing the crest of his cock ever so slightly up and down my slit.

I tense in pleasure, in anticipation, in everything that’s anything, when he pushes the first inch of that glorious cock in. My moan is simultaneous. The arching of my back is too as I lay back on the counter so I can give him access to devastate me completely.

“Look at you. Feisty.” He takes his free hand and places it right between my breasts. “Gorgeous.” He runs it over and cups each breast. “Willing.” He drags it slowly over my abdomen. “Wanting.”

And on the last word, he pushes his way into me. My mewl meets his guttural groan as he sheaths himself root to tip within me. The burn of the stretch is pleasurable. The sight of him with his head thrown back and fingers digging into my inner thighs is one to behold.

“Rush. Please,” I murmur as I tighten my grip around him, desperate for him to move and pleasure me.

And as if on cue, Rush does just that. He gives me a few strokes to prepare me and then with one thumb rubbing my clit and the other hand gripping the curve where my hip meets my thigh, Rush dives right into a punishing pace fed on lust and greed.

Our bodies connect again and again. The only sounds in the kitchen come from our skin slapping, our breaths gasping, and satisfaction as we moan and groan and beg and plead with each other. Faster. Harder. Right there. Oh my God. Yes.

In the moment, I know I’d think less of him if he were gentle or timid. It would take away from what this is. Hunger. A need. A desire to take and sate and use sex to feel whole, when you’re never supposed to use it to do that.

Gentle is for romance. This is pure lust in its truest form. No niceties are needed. No small talk. Just hands gripping flesh and hips thrusting against mine so I can feel and concentrate on how his cock scrapes over every single available nerve inside me. It’s pleasure and pain. It’s salvation and revelation. It’s so right while being so very goddamn wrong.

But Jesus, who would ever say no to this? To him?

With each thrust in, he pulls my body so I slide atop the counter and slam into him with the same force he’s using. My nerves sing. My body soars. My eyes roll back and my legs go tight. And then it’s his name on my lips, Rush, over and over and over as my orgasm hits me.

It’s a lightning strike of bliss. One that rolls in waves through some parts of me and jolts against nerves in others. I try to still so I can absorb its strength, while needing to move because it’s so powerful.

He lets me own it, take it, revel in it for a few moments so my climax isn’t overshadowed or ruined by his.

It’s the smallest of gestures that crosses my mind ever so faintly in my post-orgasmic haze, but it’s there.

And then just as quickly, when his restraint snaps and his groan rumbles through the kitchen, it’s forgotten as he takes what he needs from me to reach his high.

“Lennox. God. Fuck.” Each word is accented by a jerk of his hips and a tightening of his fingers into my flesh.

He falls on top of me—sort of. His face is resting against my abdomen, lips pressed to my skin, and his fingers find and lace with mine at my sides.

We’re both panting, both taking in the moment.

“I don’t think that was part of the contract,” I murmur, as I free my hand from one of his and run it through his hair.

He chuckles. “I’ll make sure Cannon writes an addendum to your contract to sanction this because, woman, you can’t expect to give a man something like that and then tell him it’s not part of an ongoing contract.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

LENNOX

“YOU’VE BEEN AVOIDING ME,” MY dad accuses as I stop, mid-stride on my jog (if you can call it that) up the long winding hill that leads to Johnny’s house.

“I’ve done no such thing.” Yes, I have.

“You’re in Los Angeles?” He already knows the answer.

“Yes.” I hate that I feel like a little girl about to get scolded, when I know that’s not how my dad operates. Rather, he lets the disappointment or concern in his voice lead the way.

“And you took the deal with Cannon?”

“I did.” I walk toward the edge of the road, the guardrail at my knees, and put a hand on my hip as I wait for his response.

“Did you ever think to call and talk to me about the reasons I thought the job wasn’t a good idea?” There’s a click over the connection and I can picture my dad perfectly. He’s just risen from his desk to shut his office door so he can have some privacy.