Page 33

“Promise?” She whispers it in my ear, her lips grazing my lobe, her words a solid weight on my back, shoving me over the edge.
My grip tightens on her hand, and I practically kick the door open, barely managing to drag her through it before I’m slamming it closed.
The overhead lights click on, triggered by the motion sensor over the door. More of Declan’s high-tech bullshit. As soon as our love nest is revealed, she takes a look around at the floor to ceiling shelves stacked with liquor and rows of kegs lining the back wall, and I have to smile. “Not exactly the Hawthorne, is it, Daisy?” I say, making a show of turning the lock. “You sure you’re down for this?”
Her chin comes up a bit while her hand goes to her throat, fingering that high-priced collar of hers. “Maybe if we turned off the—”
“The lights stay on,” I say, my tone low, almost guttural. “I need you to say it, Daisy. I’m on a bit of a schedule.”
“Say what?” she says, her voice pitched high, eyes wide like she’s rethinking her urge to live out her fuck the hot bartender fantasy.
“I need you to say that you want me to fuck you,” I say baldly, liking the pretty pink stain my words bring to her cheeks.
She hesitates for a moment, but then the hand at her throat falls to her stomach, pressing against it as if to quell the nerves that flutter there. Her eyes take me in, running over me from head to toe. I know what she sees. She sees what they all see. What I want them to see.
Worn jeans. Callused hands. Killer smile. Tattoos. An almost indecent amount of swagger.
It’s what they want. Why we’re here. Why she chose me and not the dickhead suit who tried to buy her a drink. I’m unknown. Unpredictable.
It’s also probably why she’s about three seconds away from changing her mind. I look at the clock nailed to the wall above her shoulder. I’ve got about ten minutes before Declan comes down the hall, banging on doors. “Look, Daisy—”
She takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly before saying the last thing I expect to hear.
“I consent.”
Not okay. Not let’sfuck. Not I want you.
I consent.
It’s probably the hottest thing a woman has ever said to me.
“You’ve got about thirty seconds to get that shirt unbuttoned,” I say, reaching for my belt. “It looks expensive, and I won’t be paying to replace it.”
She nods, looking relieved that I’ve given her something to do, finally said something to her that she can make sense of. Her hands are shaking again—nerves or excitement, I can’t tell and quite frankly, I don’t give a shit. She tugs the tail of her blouse from her skirt and starts at the bottom, fumbling the buttons loose, one by one, until it hangs open, giving me another glimpse of delicate black lace.
“I’m clean.” I give her the spiel, working my belt the rest of the way open, yanking the tail of it loose from its buckle. “I get tested every six weeks, and I wear a condom every time.” As if to prove it, I reach into my back pocket and pull out a foil pack, holding it between my fingers.
“I trust you,” she says, looking up at me, her dark chocolate eyes shooting sparks of gold and copper. Her fingers find the tiers of pale golden orbs at her throat. The clasp has worked itself around to the front. It’s set with a sapphire roughly as big as a baby’s fist, surrounded by glittering white stones that have to be diamonds. Seeing it makes me wonder who gave them to her. Pearls like that aren’t something a woman buys for herself.
I shut it down. Push it aside. She isn’t mine. Under normal circumstances, I couldn’t afford to buy a woman like this a cup of coffee let alone the kind of hardware she’s got around her neck.
“Turn around,” I tell her, tugging the button of my jeans open before working down my zipper. I can feel her staring at me. Watching me with avid interest, like she’s trying to figure out what was going to happen next.
My cock practically lunges at her, and I wrap my hand around the shaft to hold it steady while I fit the tip of the condom over its head, rolling it down the shaft. When most women see what I’m working with, they get nervous. This one is no exception.
“I said turn around, Daisy,” I growl it this time. “And put your hand on the desk.”
The desk really isn’t a desk. It’s a wide plank of plywood supported by a pair of empty beer kegs. Her gaze jerks up to my face, her cheeks flaming, and she nods again, spinning in her heels to do as I say. I’m behind her before her palms make contact with wood, dropping my hands on her hips, fisting them in the soft black of her skirt. This time I don’t stop, yanking it up around her waist in the time it takes her to gather one shuddering breath. The panties are black lace to match the bra, a wide band slung low around her hips, a thin stretch of it between her thighs. I can tell, just by the feel of them, how expensive they are. My cock twitches like a divining rod, brushing against the back of her thigh and she lets out a soft, breathless sigh at the contact.
“Don’t worry. I’ll make sure you’re ready first,” I say, cupping her perfect, lace-covered ass cheeks in my hands, running my callused thumb up the seam of her damp, lace-covered pussy. “Spread your legs.”
She does as I tell her, giving me room to find her clit and I circle it with slow, teasing strokes. She’s soaked through the lace of her panties, the warm, heavy scent of her arousal wraps around my cock, making it jump again. “You’re wet.”
She nods, teeth clamped around her lower lip, eyes closed. Hips tilted back against the pressure of my hand between her legs.
“Who are you wet for?” I say, fighting the urge to bury my face in her. To taste her. Which is weird because I’ve never felt that before. I’ve got this shit down to a science and it never includes oral. “Say it,” I tell her, stroking the pad of my thumb against her clit until her knees buckle and she lets out a moan. I stop stroking, my thumb hovering above her. “Who are you wet for?”
“You... oh god…” She pushes against my thumb, working her hips. Riding my hand, her need making her shameless. “I’m wet for you.”