His smirk is salacious. Dirty. It’s knowing. “I want you all to myself,” he whispers, guiding himself to the juncture of my thighs and slipping the throbbing head of his erection across my pulsing flesh. I cry out, bowing violently, straining against my bonds. “Is that a problem, Beau?”
“Stop,” I beg, as he circles my clit with his cock, his free hand grabbing my jaw.
“You want me to stop?” he asks, slipping his thumb past my lips and circling my tongue. “Then say my name.”
“Which one?” I gasp, and then yelp when he changes the direction of his flesh slipping on mine, pushing closer toward my opening.
“The name you know.”
My internal walls scream, trying to grab his cock and pull it in, trying to get the friction it needs. My jaw tightens, my eyes narrowing. “Stop it,” I order. He knows I’m not telling him to stop this. I’m ordering him to stop purposely fueling my intrigue.
“You stop it,” he counters, tackling my mouth hard, fisting my hair at my nape, holding me steady as he starts increasing the friction between my legs, driving me wild. The feel of his arousal, firm but soft, plays havoc with my nerve-endings, tickling them, teasing them. Our tongues tussle, our teeth clash, our moans collide. “You’re burning up down there, Beau,” he pants, biting at my lip and returning to my mouth, continuing the clumsy, frenzied kiss.
Heat sweeps through me, working its way to my head. My muscles start to stiffen. My mouth becomes urgent on his, my arms yanking and pulling at the restraints, my legs solid. I’m going to come so hard, and there isn’t a doubt that Dean will hear it. “James,” I say in warning, though all the signs tell him.
The friction is suddenly gone, his mouth missing from mine, and I growl my frustration as my orgasm retreats. He reaches down and yanks my jeans off, taking my flip-flops with them, and then seizes behind my thighs and yanks me onto him. He slips into me with no guiding. No holding. No encouragement.
“Yes,” I whisper, my forehead falling onto his shoulder. “Yes, yes, yes.”
He groans, holding still, and the feel of him beating inside of me brings my vanishing orgasm back with a vengeance. “How are your arms?” he asks, his voice still hard.
“Numb,” I admit. Every ounce of blood in me seems to have gone to my head and my core. “Finish it,” I order, and he rolls teasingly, turning his face into my neck and kissing me way too softly.
“This will never be finished,” he murmurs.
I open my eyes, gazing across the bathroom to the door. “Good.” I lift my head, turning into his face, finding his eyes. I see too much freedom in his gaze. Too many promises. And too many secrets. I hold his stare, lowering my mouth to his and nibbling at his lip. He quickly turns it into a kiss, and then gets moving again, thrusting into me steadily and firmly, no rushing, no urgency. But my release soon comes, and when James’s fingers dig into my thighs, his hips becoming rigid, I know he’s with me. It seems to hit us simultaneously, and we both jerk and whimper, prisoners to the pleasure. Our bodies roll. Our groans meld. James chokes a little, releasing one hand and grabbing the rail above us, clinging on, holding us both up, as our rolls transform into shakes and our groans become broken rather than smooth, the nerves of my clitoris pounding, my walls squeezing him unforgivingly.
He stills, and I become limp, the strain on my wrists becoming painful. The sound of our labored breathing is golden. “It’s a no from me,” he pants into my shoulder, and I sigh drowsily.
“You don’t like it?”
“No.”
“What’s not to like?”
He peels his skin from mine and lowers me to my feet, reaching up to the leather holding me in place. “You living alone, that’s what’s not to like.” My hands are quickly free, and they fall like lead to my sides. I wince, and it doesn’t escape James’s notice. Taking an arm in turn, he starts massaging some life back into them, checking the welts, which are red and raw again. “I don’t see why you don’t just stay with your uncle. What’s the rush?”
“There’s no rush, hence I’ve been at Lawrence’s for nearly two years.”
“Then what’s the problem?” He looks up at me, and I detect something in his cool eyes I haven’t seen before. Worry. I’m sure it’s worry. I’m surprised James is encouraging me to stay with Lawrence after my uncle was so rude to him. So, is there more to this?
“There wasn’t a problem, but now you’ve made me feel like there is a problem.” I gently pull my arm from his hold and find my jeans, pulling them on while I watch him closely. “You’re making me suspicious,” I admit, but what I could be suspicious of is beyond me. He’s a stockbroker, for God’s sake. Wealthy, lives in a glass castle, has cameras everywhere, fucks random women with no apology. Everything I learn about James results in more intrigue, and it’s getting to the point I’m losing the battle against my head, which is telling me to keep my mouth and ears shut. Just take what you need, Beau. Take that and nothing else. “Is there a problem?”
James fastens his trousers and gets his shirt back on, tucking it in. “Why are you asking if there’s a problem? Because if there is, you’re going to tell me you don’t want to know what the problem is.” His lips straighten, and my eyes narrow.
“I fucking hate your riddles.” I fasten the buttons of my shirt with a heavy hand, and James stares at me as he coils the belt in his hands.
“They’re not riddles, Beau.” He steps into me and kisses me gently, nibbling his way across my lips. “But if they were, the answers are right here waiting for you.”
I get lost in his attention. It’s a given. “Do you hate how much I don’t want to know?” I ask around his mouth, looping an arm around his neck.
“No, I hate how much I want to tell you.” My ass is seized, and I’m pulled up his body, my legs wrapping around his waist. I pull back and get his face in my sights. His gorgeous, manly, handsome face. I drop a kiss on the corner of his otherworldly lips and sweep my hands through his waves. And as I’m breathing him into me, relaxed, my mind seems to open and piece together the endless things James has said.
His other name. How much he wants to tell me. How he thinks I’m getting more than I bargained for. His errands today.
Oh my God.
It’s so fucking obvious, I don’t know how I didn’t consider it before.
I stare at the wall past his shoulder, my twisted thoughts all straightening out.
He’s a dad. He has a kid.
I pull away and look at him in question, my mind spinning at one hundred miles an hour. How did I miss this? He hates how much he wants to tell me, because sharing that part of his life is a serious business—something a man would only do if he was thinking of introducing someone to their child. Right? Is he thinking of introducing me? And what does that mean? Me? A kid? Fucking hell, I couldn’t inflict my gloom on a child.
I try to detach myself from him, but he stands firm, keeping me hanging from his torso, dipping to get my purse from the floor. Then he turns and walks out, and I catch sight of the fogged mirror. My face is distorted. Blurry. Unclear.
I don’t bother telling him to put me down. I don’t think I can walk anyway, not after that orgasm, and not while my mind is so focused on my latest revelation.