Page 62 of Possessive Ink

I’m consumed with staring at this man who touches me like I was designed solely for his pleasure, who talks to me like he’s memorized the things to say, straight from my internal romance novel, and who looks after me like I’m the golden treasure he never dared to hope for. So I don’t notice that we’re not heading toward his house, but instead, we’re in the center of town outside the ranger’s information station.

“What—” I start to question.

“You need to go to the bank, and you promised to be my tour guide, remember?”

Is he serious? He wants me to show him around town right now when I’m so riled up and desperate? “Oh, yeah, of course,” I say, trying to sound enthusiastic, when all I really want is to go back to his home—or bed, or car, or really anywhere that we can get naked again.

Smirking knowingly, like I’ve broadcast my dirty thoughts directly to him, he climbs out of his car and saunters confidently to my side, opening my door and offering me his hand. Once I’m standing on the sidewalk, he keeps hold of my hand while he locks his car with the remote and turns to face me.

“So…where shall we go first?”

The next hour is quite possibly the longest of my life. Despite nothing even remotely inappropriate happening, my body continues to prickle with desire until I feel so tense I’m almost to the point of being consumed by my own desire.

At Atticus’s behest, after we visit my bank, we wander the streets, browsing the windows of the stores we pass and ignoring the interested glances we get from the people we stroll by. I’m sure we look a sight—me in my pink dress, the skirt billowing like a princess frolicking through the wildflowers, and Atticus looking debonair, dark, and giving off an aloof vibe to everyone but me.

“Are you thirsty? Shall we stop for a drink?” Atticus asks, his lips curled into a knowing smirk.

“No, I’m good.”

“We could head to the studio, and I could show you where I’m going to be working,” he suggests.

I swallow back the groan that tries to burst from my lips.

“But that’s not what you want, is it?” he taunts, lowering his voice until it’s a seductive rasp that seems to be tuned to the frequency of my clit.

“Atticus,” I whine breathily.

“Who am I?” he asks, slowing us to a stop in the middle of the sidewalk.

Glancing around us to make sure no one is close enough to hear, I whisper, “Sir.”

“And what would you like your Sir to do?”

“I want you to touch me.”

Chuckling softly, he runs the tip of his finger over my jaw.

“You know that’s not what I mean.” I pout. “Let’s go back to your place.”

“You want me to take you home,” he says.

“Yes, Sir. Take me home.”

Smiling widely, he turns us in the direction of his car. “All you had to do was ask.”

Trying not to break into a run, I walk as quickly as I can, silently urging him to move faster when he continues to stroll at a leisurely pace. I groan with relief when his car comes into view, impatiently squirming on the spot while I wait for him to unlock it. The moment I can wrench the door open, I practically throw myself into the seat, my hands shaking as I drag the belt over me.

Instead of mirroring my eagerness, Atticus is calm as he closes my door and strides around the hood to the driver’s side. My skin feels like it’s burning me alive, but he doesn’t seem affected as he opens the door and drives us toward his house.

“Wait,” he says firmly when I reach for the door handle, more than ready to get things moving.

Clamping my hands together in my lap, I gnaw at my bottom lip, my breathing sharp as I wait for him to open my door. I practically fall out of the car, my feet tangled in my skirt as I rush to climb out. Darting forward, he catches me as I throw my arms out to save myself, lifting me into the air before carefully lowering me to my feet again.

“Sir,” I gasp as I start to head for the door of the building, only to find myself pulled back into his side, his firm grip pinning me against him and forcing me to walk at his pace, his steps infuriatingly slow.

The music is blasting when we step inside the warehouse, but instead of using the app on his cell to turn the volume down, he guides me straight toward the stairs that lead to the loft. The moment the door closes behind us, I throw myself into his arms, pushing up onto my tiptoes to search for his mouth as my fingers attempt to push his jacket off his shoulders.

Before I have a chance to remove any of his clothes, Atticus takes control, dipping his head to meet my mouth, but instead of ravenous ferocity, his lips are slow, calm, and relaxed.