Page 73 of The Wrong Game

“Mm-hmm,” I managed, but I’d already closed my eyes, soaking in the feel of his hands on me.

“This is the best part,” he said, repeating his sentiment from that first night. “You’re nervous, because you’re excited, because I’m new and I make you feel something.”

I swallowed as his hands slid up a little more, under the tank top I wore beneath my hoodie, his fingers splaying over my rib cage.

“You want to touch me,” he breathed, rolling his hips against my ass. I gasped at the feel of his hard-on, knowing he was already so turned on, so ready.

“Yes,” I breathed.

His hands drifted up even more, fingers slipping beneath the wire of my bra. He brushed the bottom of my breasts, gently at first, and then his fingertips rolled over each of my nipples just as he sucked the lobe of my ear between his teeth.

“And you want me to touch you.”

“God,yes.” I panted, back arching of its own accord. I wanted his hands on me,fullyon me, wanted to press every inch of me against every inch of him.

I almost forgot about my wine, the glass slipping in my hand, and I took a step toward the table where Zach had abandoned his glass. But his hands tightened around my ribs, holding me in place.

“No,” he commanded, and his fingers inched their way up, rolling over my nipples once more. I moaned, head falling back against his shoulder. “Hold onto that wine glass,” he said, dragging his tongue over the back of my neck. “And don’t you spill a fucking drop.”

He squeezed my nipples tighter before letting go of them altogether, and I whimpered, body shaking at the loss.

Zach kissed down my neck, over my shoulder, biting down on the muscle as his hands slipped from under my hoodie and dived down to my jeans, instead. I barely got another breath in before the button was unhooked, the zipper yanked down, and his hands hooked in the hem, rolling the denim down over my hips as he pressed against me harder from behind.

“Ever since the night I first touched you, I’ve been dying to touch you again,” he breathed, tugging my jeans down as I wiggled to help him in his efforts. “To taste you again.”

I moaned, rubbing my ass against his rigid cock once my jeans were around my knees. He felt so big against my bare skin, thick and hard and ready to demolish me. But he didn’t rip my jeans off farther, didn’t yank me around or take even a single article of his own clothing off.

Instead, he let me wiggle the rest of the way out of my jeans, all while holding my wine glass as steady as I could. Then, he gathered my hair in one hand, tugging a little as he moved it over one shoulder and whispered into my ear.

“Can I taste you, Gemma?”

“Yes,” I breathed, the word reverberating through me. “Please,please.”

I felt his lips curl against my skin, and Zach pressed one more kiss beneath my ear before his hands ran their way down my back, over my hips, and he held them tight as he lowered himself to the ground behind me.

When he did, his face was directly in line with my ass.

I sucked in a breath, one hand still clutching that damn wine glass as the other hung awkwardly at my side. I didn’t know what to do with that empty hand, where to put it, what to touch. I wanted it in his hair, but he was behind me. I wanted to touch him, but he was out of reach.

But when his tongue ran along my left ass cheek, a satisfied growl ripping from his throat before his teeth sank into my flesh, I didn’t have to think about what to do with that hand anymore.

I gasped, hand shooting out to slam against the window as a mixture of pain and overwhelming pleasure washed over me.

Zach chuckled, both hands taking a firm grip on my ass. “You love to shake this thing when you strut away from me,” he husked, hands massaging my cheeks. “Drives me absolutely insane.”

He spanked me, and I yelped, nearly forgetting about the glass again until the red liquid sloshed up the side, threatening to spill.

“Ah, ah,” he tsked, rubbing the skin he’d just reddened with his palms. “Don’t spill.”

I groaned, throwing my head back as he snaked one hand between my thighs. The side of his index finger rubbed against my clit, the lace of my panties giving the perfect amount of friction to bring every nerve to life.

It’d never been like this with Carlo, with anyone. Just like every other aspect of my life, I always honed control in the bedroom. I was the one who went down first. I was the one who climbed on top. I was the one who initiated, who set the pace, who finished first.

But when Zach touched me, he sucked every ounce of control out of me like a god taking my soul. When his hands were on me, I was his — his to own, his to do with what he wanted.

I never knew the kind of pleasure that could come from letting go.

“Goddamn,” Zach breathed, a guttural moan leaving his throat as he slipped one fingertip beneath my panties. “You are so fucking wet, Gem.”