“Hard. Brutally. It hurts.” I couldn’t take my eyes off his cock, hard and thick in his palm. It made my mouth water, made my cunt wetter.
“Show me,” he said, stroking himself lazily. “Show me how much it hurts.”
I thrust my fingers inside of me again and again, rapidly, the way I always liked to imagine him fucking me. The way I always remembered him fucking me. The pressure of my hand helped relieve my discomfort, but it wasn’t perfect. I wanted more. I wanted him. I stared at him, stared at his cock as he ran his hand up and down his shaft, wishing again that I could touch it. Wishing it was closer.
Without realizing what I was doing, I scooted closer to the edge of the bed. He still wasn’t close enough. “Show me!” I cried. “I want to see you too. Please!”
For once, he didn’t argue. He walked to the end of the bed and scooped some of my wetness from my pussy. Then, standing over me, he matched my tempo, jerking himself off inches above where I finger-fucked myself. It was so hot, so dirty, watching his hand moving briskly over his thick cock while I imagined he was holding me down, plowing into me instead of his palm.
I couldn’t take more than a minute of it before my orgasm ripped through me. My back arched and my toes curled and my vision went black and then spotted with lights. It was the kind of orgasm that I felt everywhere in my body. The kind I’d never had with another person other than Donovan.
Donovan watched intently throughout my climax—I felt his eyes on me the entire time—and when I was finished, he was ready with his own. As soon as I could see again, I threw my focus back to him. His hand quickened and he moved to tug on just his tip. Suddenly, his tempo slowed and he came, spilling everywhere on my belly and my pussy.
It was one of the most erotic things I’d ever experienced in my life. Even as sticky with sweat and cum as I was. I probably looked like a worn-out porn star, but I felt fabulous.
Donovan was already tucking himself away and zipping up his pants when I gathered myself enough to prop up on my elbows and stare dazedly at him.
“Was this you marking your territory?” I asked, sure that I had the dopiest grin on my face.
“Is that the reason you came up with for your fantasy?” He kept his attention on his belt as he fastened the buckle.
“Is that not the right interpretation?”
“No, Sabrina,” he said sharply. He met my eyes. “I came on you because it’s dirty, and it gets me off. Don’t attach anything more to it than that, fantasy or not.”
My grin slid off my face. More like he’d knocked it off my face by what he’d said. There were a thousand responses that came to mind, too many to sort through in the moment. There was nothing I could do except to sit there, dumbfounded, naked and covered in his cum.
And what an asshole that he could say something so cold while looking me straight in the eye. To my credit, I wasn’t the one who looked away first.
He finished putting himself together quickly. “I’m going,” he said, dodging my gaze. He’d taken several steps before—as an afterthought—he asked, “Would you like me to grab you a towel before I leave?”
“No, thank you,” I said bitterly. “I need a shower.” I suddenly wanted to wash the whole night off of me, wanted to clean myself of Donovan Kincaid.
He nodded, as if his approval was necessary. At the door to my bedroom he stopped. “Make sure you lock up behind me.”
Yeah, yeah. Like you care.
I stood up to follow after him, but when I heard the apartment door shut, the first thing I did was pick up the night cream by the side of my bed and throw it across the room.
Once again Donovan Kincaid had proven to me that he was a total asshole. It was not the first time. Not even the second time. Why, then, was I always surprised when he showed his true colors?
A Dangerous Devil, that’s what he was. A Dangerous Dark Warrior Devil.
After kicking a few things and locking the door, I took a scalding hot angry shower. I was angry as I washed my hair. Angry as I scrubbed myself clean. Angry as I erased every trace of Donovan from my body.
And it wasn’t just Donovan I was angry with. I was angry with myself. More than anything else, I was angry at getting caught in his trap. I was angry for caring. I was angry, because if I wasn’t, then I’d be hurt, and I was pretty sure that would feel even worse.
Chapter 20
I spent the weekend engaged in a teeter-totter of thoughts where Donovan was concerned. He pissed me off; he didn’t piss me off. I cared; I didn’t care. It was just sex; it was more than sex. It didn’t matter; it mattered.
By Monday morning, the conclusion I’d come to was that I was a strong woman who’d had dirty sex with a powerful man. It had been my choice, and I owned that. I was grateful for that choice. It had been consensual, and there was nothing to regret or be ashamed of.
What I didn’t own was the disrespectful way that Donovan had left, and that had nothing to do with me—that was on him. I refused to feel bad about it. He obviously had a fear of women growing attached to him. If he’d thought that I’d grown attached after one roll in the hay or that I’d misread the situation, he’d worried needlessly.
Or maybe he’d worried as he should. I’d thought about him for ten years after the first roll in the hay—if that wasn’t attachment, I didn’t know what was.
The point was, I wasn’t planning to cling, and if he thought I was then he needed to get over himself.
The only thing I hadn’t decided was whether or not I planned to say something about his nasty departure. Yes. No. The answer changed by the hour.
It would have to be a bridge I crossed when I came to it. Luckily, I didn’t see much of Donovan on a day-to-day basis without going out of my way.
Problem was, there were other people that I did see on a day-to-day basis. And, as I stepped into the elevator and found myself standing next to another man in a suit who was both my boss and had seen me naked, I realized I’d forgotten to consider how I planned to deal with Weston.
“Morning,” I mumbled, unable to meet his eyes. What were the rules of etiquette in this situation? Did I need to tell him about Donovan? Did I owe Weston a heads up? We weren’t together, but we’d almost made out just hours before I’d ended up in bed with his best friend. What was my obligation here?
While I bandied the two options—tell, don’t tell; tell, don’t tell—Weston fidgeted next to me. His eyes seemed focused on the dial watching as the elevator climbed from floor to floor when he abruptly burst out, “We need to talk.”
Oh, shit.
My options suddenly seemed slimmer.
Or, maybe I was jumping to conclusions.
“If this is about Friday…” I paused, realizing that wasn’t specific enough. “If this is about the restaurant, I don’t think there’s anything else that needs to be said.”
“This isn’t about the restaurant.” He couldn’t look at me either, I noticed.
“Oh.” My hands were sweaty. He knew. He already knew. Donovan told him, and he knew. “Okay.”
I took a breath.
This was fine. I’d tell him that I was planning to tell him today. He couldn’t be that mad. We weren’t a couple. He was engaged to someone else, for Christ’s sake.