Page 82 of Wicked Heat

I spin in his arms, then hook my hands behind his neck, pulling his mouth to mine. His hands are on my ass, and he tugs me closer so that I feel the bulge of his erection beneath his jeans. I slide a hand down, stroking him before my fingers find the button, then the zipper. He groans as I stroke him, as I urge him back to one of the stadium seats.

“Sit,” I say, then watch his face. I expect him to argue. To be the one to claim control. But he doesn’t. Instead, he holds my eyes as he settles into the chair, his slacks open and his very hard cock exposed.

His brow lifts in question, as if he knows how much I want him. How much I want to beg him to be inside me.

But I won’t. I need that money. And I made this deal.

“Knees,” he says, and I feel the reverberation of that order all through my body. I hesitate only a second, waiting for the inevitable twang of fear, determined to keep it at bay.

But it doesn’t come. There’s no fear. There’s only longing. Genuine desire.

That tightening of my nipples. That heat between my thighs. I close my eyes, reveling in the moment, then jerk my head up when he brushes a hand over my forehead.

“Bree. Are you okay?”

The question warms me more than it should, and I shake it off, then lift my head to look at him. “Tell me what you want.”

“You know.”

I make a show of licking my lips. “Tell me,” I repeat.

His brows rise almost imperceptibly, and I see a flicker of something that might be humor, but might also be lust, in his eyes. “Your mouth,” he says. “On my cock.”

I say nothing, but this time I kneel before him. I put my hands on his thighs, then lean forward and lick his cock from tip to balls before drawing him into my mouth and teasing him with my lips, my tongue, my fingers.

I don’t close my eyes. Instead, I twist to peek at his face. I see passion. I see how far I’m taking him. Need. Desire.

I cherish all of it. I revel in it. This power over him. I want to take him over. To make him beg and cry out and need. And without thinking, I pull back, then rise, climb onto the stadium seat, and straddle him.

I’m so wet, and he’s rock hard, and it takes all my control not to take him inside. To remain like this, grinding against him, but not letting him fill me even though it’s very clear that both of us want exactly that.

I put my hands on his shoulders as I move back and forth. Me in control. Me making him moan. Making him cry out my name.

Then his hands cup my breasts before sliding down to my waist, to my hips. Now he’s in control, moving me, rocking me. “I want you, Bree.” His voice is low. Guttural. “I want all of you. Beg for it. Dammit, Bree, I want you to beg.”

But I only shake my head, his need turning me on even more until it feels like I’m glowing with power, especially when his fingertip slides between us as he plays with my clit, when he thrusts those fingers inside and begs me to, “Come, baby. Go over. You’re so close. Go over with me.”

Then he leans forward and closes his mouth over my breast, and that’s when I explode, his cock between my legs, his fingers playing me like a fine instrument. My core tightens around his fingers and in that instant, he arches back, groans, and comes as well.

And as I fall back to earth, rocking forward to put my head on his shoulder and simply breathe, only two thoughts are clear: More and Ashton.

For a moment we stay like that, half-naked with him now soft beneath me. Then I ease off and shimmy back into the dress before digging in my purse for tissue. I offer him a handful, and we share a smile as we clean up.

“I don’t know what I was expecting,” he says. “But it wasn’t that.”

“Good surprise?” I ask. “Or bad surprise.”

“Terrible.”

I laugh. “Yeah. Just awful.”

He finishes putting his clothes together, then stands. “One important thing,” he begins, and I feel myself tense, afraid that he’s about to steal the joy from this moment. Because that’s what always happens, isn’t it?

But that’s not what happens at all. Instead, he grins at me, then glances up into the stands. “The moment we’re back at the hotel, remind me to log onto the track’s computer and erase the security feed.”

“Deal,” I say, laughing as he brushes my hair away from my face.

He kisses me, this time soft and sweet. “On second thought,” he says, nuzzling my ear. “I might keep that recording for myself.”