My body is strung so tight, my need at fever pitch, my want dancing across my skin in goosebumps.
His hand grips the back of my neck again. “Tell me you’re ready for me. Tell me you want me. Tell me to fuck you,” he growls into my ear.
But I don’t speak—can’t—as his fingers continue their slow, delicious torture to the nerves and pleasure points between the apex of my thighs. My head falls back on his shoulder as I moan with another maneuver of his fingers. “Hunter.” His name is a long, drawn-out plea to give me what I need and to never stop.
“I know this body. I know what you need. So goddamn wet,” he groans. “I’ve wanted you from the moment I saw you. Now, bend over.”
My pulse races as I do as I’m told. His hands caress down my hips before one slides up and down my slit, allowing the room’s cool air to hit my most sensitive flesh.
But more arousing than his touch is his hum of approval, of desire, of greed that owns the room around us.
I rest on my elbows in eagerness and then jolt when I feel the soft swipe of his tongue over my clit, stopping to dip in my center, before moving up over the tight rim of muscles atop, before going back the way he started.
He’s deliberately slow, and his tantalizing torture has me squirming and widening my legs so he can have whatever part of me he wants.
I’m his.
Completely.
“Please,” I moan.
A chuckle is his only response as he withdraws all touch from me. Then I yelp as his hand connects firmly with the side of my ass.
But the sting is quickly forgotten, the temporary pain gone as I hear the telltale rip of foil. He takes a moment to protect us before he slides the head of his cock up and down my slit.
“Sweet hell, Dekker,” he moans as he slowly pushes his way into me.
My muscles resist with the sweetest of burns until they heat and accept and tighten from the fullness. It’s my moan in the room now. It’s my command for him to move. It’s my ass pushing back against him telling him I’m ready.
With both hands on my hips, he begins to move in and out of me in measured, controlled strokes.
Each one a slow seduction to my nerves.
Each one an assault on my senses in the best way possible.
Each one another stroke closer to his control snapping.
And I can feel it happening, just as surely as I can feel my own orgasm begin to build.
His grip becomes tighter on my shoulder. His thrusting is more powerful, the slap of his thighs against mine louder. The sounds he emits more guttural, more unhinged.
Combined, they turn me on in a way no one else has ever been able to before, but I push the thought out of my mind and fall into the moment. Under the haze of pleasure. To the sensations he evokes.
I reach my hand between my thighs and brush my finger over my clit. The drag of his cock inside. The tease of my fingers on the outside. The gruff groan of my name. The ability he gives me to feel, to be, to give in.
It’s heady and powerful and damn it to hell, he allows my body to build and soar and ache until the sensations reach a crescendo that I can only close my eyes, bow my head, and hang on to for the ride.
My body detonates—fractures into a million pieces as the orgasm slams into my every nerve, my every muscle, my everything.
My hips buck.
“Take it all.”
My hands grip the comforter beneath me.
“Come for me, Dekk.”
I cry out as my body tenses with pleasure and then sags with its release. I’m awash with warmth and bliss as my knees buckle, but Hunter’s hands hold my hips up as he continues to drive into me. As he milks every ounce of pleasure out of me before picking up his pace.
I’m still under the fog of my climax, still trying to catch my breath and gain my faculties, but I don’t have a chance to because it’s Hunter’s turn now.
His hands bruise and hips slam against me until his feral groan echoes as he empties himself into me.
“Hell,” he murmurs as he bends over and kisses my shoulder before wrapping his arms around my waist and holding me into him.
We stay like this for a few moments as our breathing evens and our hearts decelerate. Just as I’m trying to figure out what happens next, he slips out of me when he straightens up, and heads for the bathroom without a word.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
DEKKER
THE KNOCK ON THE HOTEL room door has me jolting to attention like a kid caught doing something she shouldn’t be doing.
“The food,” we both say in unison as if that singular idea can suddenly bring back the disjointed feeling we both have in the aftermath of what happened between us.
“Here.” He tosses a robe my way as he strides past me to where his suitcase is. “Just a second,” he calls to the room service person on the other side of the door. Within a few seconds, he’s stepping into a pair of jogging pants, as I slide the robe on.
“I’d kill for anything hot.” He laughs the words out, his hand tapping my ass, before he opens the door. “What do you have for us . . .?”
Hunter’s words fade while my hands still tying the knot in my robe.
Callum.
Eyes wide, jaw lax.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
“I’m—I’m sorry.” He jerks back a step. “It’s late.” His eyes go between the two of us again as he stammers. “I didn’t mean to interrupt—”
“You didn’t. Nothing happened.” More than flustered, I take a step forward, well aware that the room behind us suggests the contrary. Our wet clothes litter the space, landing wherever we took them off, and the bed is a rumpled mess. “We had a snowball fight. We were wet.” The words come out messily as I gesture toward the clothes strewn about. “Freezing. There’s a pipe leak in my hallway. On my floor. We thought you were room service bringing us food to warm us up.”
“Relax, Dekk,” Hunter says as he reaches up and puts a hand on my bicep. “You’re a big girl. You don’t have to explain.”
But I do have to explain, I want to say. Callum is a client, and now that he thinks we’re together, my integrity and reputation are at stake.
“I just . . . it’s not what he thinks it is,” I mumble, hating that Callum can’t even meet my eyes.
“I wanted to make sure you got back okay,” Callum says to me, eyes lowered. “I tried your cell but didn’t hear anything.” He pauses and then turns his attention to Hunter. “And you, Maddox. You took off from the club without a word and were drunk as shit . . . Forget about it.” He looks from Hunter to me and then back. “You’re obviously okay. Both of you.”
“Yep. Sure am,” Hunter says, that half-cocked smirk on his lips not doing me any favors to dispel the situation.
“I’m just waiting for my room to be ready.”
“In a robe,” Cal purses his lips and nods. “Got it.”
“Cal, wait,” I say and step past Hunter. “I promise it’s not what it looks like.”
“It’s your business, not mine.”
“Perfect timing,” a voice says behind Callum, and we all startle at there being someone else in the hallway at this odd hour of the morning. There’s a rattle of dishes on a tray—glasses and silverware, before the room service person steps forward, pushing the tray in front of them. “Mr. Maddox?” he asks as he looks at the two men.