Page 13 of Rulebreaker (Gamebreakers #4)

THIRTEEN

Atlas

My phone buzzes and my dick is hard the second I see Lily’s name on the screen.

Then gets harder as I read the text she’s just sent even before I process the words.

Lily: Come fuck me in San Francisco?

I scowl, hear the man on the other side of my desk–and thank fuck it’s big enough to hide the fact that I’m sporting a boner like a teenager–gulp and shift uncomfortably.

Because he’s sitting across from Atlas Delarosa.

Waiting for my opinion on a project he’s just pitched me.

And I’m getting a hard-on from a text, equal parts thrilled at the invitation and pissed that Lily is reducing what we have to just sex.

Isn’t it ?

She’s let me into her body but certainly hasn’t let me into her heart.

I know the way she moans as she comes apart, how my name sounds on her tongue when she’s close, can recall the tight clasp of her pussy around my fingers, my dick when I do something to push her closer to the edge. I know how she tastes, how she sounds, how she feels–

And fuck, this isn’t helping me get rid of my erection.

Or putting the kid–who’s presented a really great project to me–out of his misery.

I flip my phone back over, smooth away my scowl, and say to him, “Tell me more about your plans for the first stage rollout.”

He does–and does it well.

And I listen–doing it intently because I know what it’s like to be in his position, to be overlooked, to be fighting, inching, crawling forward.

But that doesn’t mean I authorize the project just because I feel sorry for him or because I see a glimmer of myself in him–even though I do.

I okay it because it’s a solid project, because he’s presented good ideas and because his past work at my company tells me that he has the skills and determination to follow through.

It’ll be good for all of us.

“Thanks, Mr. Delarosa,” he says as we both stand and shake hands.

My mouth quirks. “Don’t thank me yet,” I tell him. “You just signed yourself up for a shitload of work over the next nine months.”

The kid just grins. “Looking forward to it.”

And I know he’s going to do great.

Know I’ve likely started him down on a path that means, one day, he’ll be a competitor .

But I’m grinning too.

Because there’s nothing I love more than a challenge.

Which is precisely why I call my jet and have them get ready for a flight up to San Francisco.

I’m still riding the high of watching Lily perform as I swipe the key at the door to her hotel room.

She had to do a couple of VIP meet and greets after the show, so we didn’t get to finish what we started in her green room in Portland, but she did give me her room key and cleared my presence with her security team so I could come here.

I intended to beat her here, but work had other plans, and by the time I was done putting out fires and off the phone, she’d texted to say she was going to shower and to join her.

Another text that had me getting hard.

I push into the room, stroll down the hallway, and–

Jesus fuck, she’s beautiful.

“I see I missed the shower,” I say, not slowing as the little minx, currently leaning back against the side of the couch…

Completely naked.

One slender shoulder shrugs, and–but fucking hell–her legs automatically part as I step closer, as my hand settles on her side.

As if her body instinctively knows that I’m going to bring her pleasure.

I mean, it’s right.

I am.

But also…I’d like to know a little bit more of what makes Lily Maxwell tick.

That thought is so intense–so fucking terrifying–that I freeze .

“Atlas?” she murmurs.

I shake myself, go back to stroking, to tracing nonsensical patterns on silken skin. “I see you didn’t forget the red lipstick.”

“No, I didn’t.” Her mouth curves into a sexy smile, and she brushes my hand away–something I only allow because she’s dropping to her knees, her fingers working at the button on my slacks, tugging down the zipper, those red-painted lips parting.

“Fuck,” I growl, fisting her hair as she sucks me deep.

She’s good at this–too good, especially with that fucking lipstick and that gorgeous body. I want to lick and stroke every inch of her, want to kiss and touch and fuck.

But she’s gripping me tight and sucking me deep, and I can’t do anything but bury my hand in her hair, thrust into her mouth, and enjoy the pleasure she’s giving me.

At least until she pulls back, her eyes sparkling, her lips turned up into a confident smile.

She’s in control.

Complete control.

And I can’t have that–not in bed, not in my life, not when almost every interaction with this woman has already been the same: leaving me scrambling, leaving me flat-footed, leaving me at a loss and frustrated and–

“Fuck!” I growl when she reaches between my legs and cups my balls, massaging them lightly, causing my restraint to buck against its reins.

I’m close.

Too close.

So, I summon the modicum of self-control I have left, tug that tight, slick mouth off my cock…and I take advantage of her being naked.

“Atlas—” My name catches on her tongue.

Probably because I’ve bent her over the arm of the couch and kicked her legs wide .

“Shut up and take me,” I order, making quick work of rolling a condom down the length of my erection and notching myself at her entrance.

“I—” But she breaks off on a moan.

Likely because I’m thrusting deep, bottoming out, and fucking her fast and furious and without quarter.

There’s no time.

She’s wet and gripping me tight. I’m close to the edge and need her to topple with me.

And then we’re both falling apart, my name on her lips again, her pussy clamping tightly around me. Pleasure tears through me, making my strokes go unsteady, my vision hazy, my knees shake and threaten to crumple.

I lock them out, manage to stay upright, and ride the fucking wave.

It’s too fucking good, but then again, everything with this woman seems to be exactly that–

At least until she says, “I should go to bed.”

I.

I.

My temper spikes and I grind my teeth together, sending a bolt of pain through my jaw.

But I keep back the sharp words that want to escape.

The feeling of just being a fucking booty call to Lily when I’m living and breathing and thinking about her every goddamned moment persists, though.

I shove that down, right along with the words.

Then I scoop her up into my arms, carry her into the bedroom, and toss her onto the mattress.

“You—”

I don’t listen to whatever bullshit she’s about to spout, just go into the bathroom, take care of the condom, then wash my hands. And then–because I can’t help myself–I snag a washcloth, wet it, and I walk back out into the bedroom.

“Atlas,” she begins.

I nudge her legs apart, make short work of taking care of cleaning her up too.

Then I launch the cloth through the open bathroom door and don’t delay in crawling into bed next to her.

“I have to get up early,” she says and I hear the unspoken brush-off.

I just ignore it.

“Tell me how you decide on a setlist,” I order.

“I—” A pause. “What?”

“You have the songs you play every night,” I say. “But the others rotate through. How do you choose those?”

She stares at me for a long moment. “Why do you want to know?”

“Because you’re interesting, Texas. And I want to know every part of you.”

“I—” Her mouth opens and closes. “I’m not that interesting.”

I lift my brows. “And that reply speaks for itself. Is it too personal?”

“Wh-what?”

“Your reason for choosing the songs,” I elaborate. “Is the reason you choose them too personal?”

Her cheeks go slightly pink.

And now I’m almost desperate to know.

Unfortunately, I don’t think her answer is the truth–or not the whole truth, anyway.

“I get into moods,” she says. “Sometimes I want to go back to my roots and do the country thing, sometimes I’m angry and want to rock out.

” She lifts a shoulder, drops it, smile turning seductive.

“Sometimes there’s someone in the crowd I want to sing too.

” She rolls into me. “Kind of like I sang ‘Always a Lover’ to you in the wings tonight.”

I think about her eyes locked onto mine, her lush body undulating to the music, knowing that we’d end up exactly here—and that combined with her hand wrapping around my cock again means that’s the only glimmer I get of the real Lily Maxwell before she succeeds in distracting me.

For hours.

Until we’re both limp and exhausted and mere seconds away from passing out.

But that glimpse means that I’m even more entranced with the stubborn pop star.

Especially when I wake up to an empty bed, a note telling me to sleep as late as I want because the room is paid for on the pillow beside me.

Because I’m not giving up.

Not until I have every last piece of her.