Slow Burn

Chapter 18

BECKETT

“So, uh, you brown-bagging it or what?”

Colton is standing to my right but I keep my head turned so I can watch Haddie in the lounge chair across the deck. In her bikini, she’s sexy as hell all the way down to that diamond glistening in her navel, which I never knew she had because she’s never worn it. And damn, it’s just ridiculously hot in so many ways.

“Brown-bagging it?”

He plops himself down across from me, the cushion making a noise from the force before he leans back and props his feet up on the table catty-corner to mine. He angles his chin up to where I was just watching Haddie. “Yeah, taking her out of the bag to get a taste of her when no one’s looking and then slipping her away before someone catches sight of you.”

“Seriously, dude?” I sputter, turning to stare at him. Like I should be surprised at anything that comes out of his mouth. “Did you really just say that?”

“Oh, get over yourself, Daniels. It’s cool. You and I both know you’ve been sampling that dessert. We’ve known each other way too fucking long for you to lie to me over a piece of ass.”

And as much as he’s right—on all counts—something in me prefers lifting my bottle of beer to my mouth to take a swallow instead of answering the question. My eyes veer back over to her as her laughter drifts across the patio. She’s partially reclined on the chaise, her body covered in what any man would consider a dick-hardening bikini—ties and scraps of fabric—that makes one wonder if there are any tan lines it’s hiding.

And the answer is most definitely no.

Damn. The reality that I know that for a fact tightens my sack before I realize that Colton’s fixated on me and not elsewhere like I thought.

“Well, being the picky fucker that you are, you sure as fuck raised the bar with her…. There’s not much to pick apart there.”

“Dude, just because I bitched that one time about Sandy.” I shake my head and roll my eyes behind my glasses.

“That one time? Are you listening to yourself? How about every time?” he chortles. “Her voice is too annoying. She’s too superficial. She was—”

“C’mon, you have to admit she was …” I mock shiver at the memory of her and her nasty hygiene habits.

“I have not a clue what you’re talking about, you picky bastard.” He’s enjoying this immensely, that much I can tell, so I just blow out a breath and wash down the crow he’s handing me.

“Well, I guess I should just follow in your footsteps then Mr. No-pussy-is-good-enough-to-commit-to-for-life.” I repeat the words he used to use as a motto for years to him with a lift of my eyebrows and sarcasm rich in my voice.

He belts out a laugh. “You got me, dude. I’ve learned the error of my ways because, damn, Rylee’s is most definitely enough for a lifetime.” He shakes his head with a laugh as he tips the beer to his lips and takes a long swallow. “Speaking of …” He shifts his eyes to Haddie and then back to me. “She good?”

“How’s married life?” I ask the question, knowing he’s not going to fall for it but needing to attempt changing the topic nonetheless. Besides, how Haddie is in the sack is none of his goddamn business. A litany of curses flies through my head as I realize that my not wanting to talk about her skills is a sign in and of itself of how bad I have it for her. Colton and I have talked about everyone and everything we’ve done with them before.

All except for Rylee, whom he’s now married to.

And now Haddie.

If that’s the case, then what the fuck does that mean?

He throws his head back, the laughter drawing some looks from the crew playing volleyball in the pool and luckily distracting me from looking closer at my own revelation. “I do believe you asked about married life an hour ago. Your diversion tactics need a bit of help, brother. Nice try though. ‘A’ for effort and all that.”

“‘A’ is for asshole,” I mutter. In return, he flashes me a cocky grin, which has me laughing and shaking my head. “You and your alphabet.”

“Yup. My alphabet is doing just fine,” he says, referring to his nickname for his wife, his smile so damn big, it’s still a shock to the system to see as he looks across the patio at Rylee. “Married life is good, dude. It’s Ry, you know?” he says with a shrug as if that’s the only explanation he needs.

The contentment in his voice and his relaxed posture show me the truth in his words, and I can’t help but smile. He deserves to be happy after everything he’s gone through, from his abusive childhood to the nearly fatal crash he endured last year.

“So”—he draws out the word and tips the top of his beer toward Haddie—“what gives? You’ve got this slow-burn type of thing going with her or what?”

I grunt a laugh. Slow burn, my ass. More like fire in the goddamn hole.

I exhale in frustration at the multiple contradictions that are Haddie Montgomery. “Fuck if I know, dude.” I lift my cap from my head and run my other hand through my hair before I put it back on and adjust it. “I appreciate a good mind-fuck every now and again, but she just … Man, I don’t know how to explain the shit she’s doing to mess with my head.”

He smiles at me, fighting the laughter. “Welcome to the estrogen vortex, dude, where mindfucks are the norm and understanding them is as common as a fucking unicorn in your front yard.”

“Thanks.” I blow the word out in frustration before glancing over once again to the cause of it. I don’t get it. Where exactly does Dante fall into play in all of this? If it was the fact that she wanted to play the field, that’s one thing, but if that’s the case, then why not just say it? And if so, why was she jealous of what she assumed was going on with Deena?

Fuck if I can figure her out, but damn it to hell, I want to. I want to know every goddamn piece of her. She’s like that first taste of something you can’t have—that priceless sip of Macallan poured neat—and no matter how many times you’re lucky enough to get just a splash more, it’s never enough to get you drunk.

Just a buzz to keep you wanting more.

I lean forward and pull another beer from the bucket of ice in front me on the table and pop the top with the opener. I take a sip and sigh at its taste—fucking beer when all I want is that damn single-malt Scotch.

I just can’t get her pegged: The woman who’s come undone with me is a different person from the feisty-as-fuck one in the kitchen earlier. She’s hot and cold, but damn, when she’s hot, it’s scorching, and when she’s cold, it’s arctic.

“Haddie, huh?” he says. I look over at him as he’s studying her. “Could do a whole helluva lot worse.”

I snort at him. “Yeah, well …” So many things are on the tip of my tongue. But they’d make me sound more interested than I am. Or rather than I want to let on that I am because I’m not opening that door for him to walk his sarcastic ass through.

“So what gives?”

“Apparently me.”

“Fuck, dude. That’s your problem right there. Quit being such a pussy. She’s already got one between her legs, so why would she need another one there?”

“Are you seriously insulting my manhood?”

“Well, you’re kind of being a chick right now. If you like her, take her. Shit, Daniels, what the fuck happened to you while I was on my honeymoon? Your nuts shrivel up and fall off?”

“Fuck off,” I tell him softly, his words hitting the mark and leaving me wondering.

I enjoy the beer sliding down my throat, as the previous ones start to hum in my veins and relax me—taking the edge off from walking in the kitchen and seeing her in that damn bikini. Those small scraps of fabric had my dick begging and my head thinking about how much I’d have liked to set her ass up on the edge of that counter, press myself between her thighs, and fuck her into tomorrow. My irritation over her leaving without a good-bye and ignoring my texts and calls urged me to take without giving her time to argue. To prove to her just why she needs me around.

But that in itself is so fucked-up. Since when do I want to make my claim on a woman so that I can mark her as mine? Usually I’m laid-back. A chick doesn’t like me? There’s plenty more who do. But with Haddie, hell if I know why I’m being so pansy-ass with her. I tell myself to let it go—let her go—and I realize I don’t want to.

Because she matters.

And hell if I’m going to admit that to Colton, but it’s the truth.

A bottle cap hits me midchest and draws me from my thoughts. “What are you thinking about?” he asks, a taunting smirk on his face.

“Scotch,” I answer, watching his smile fall as he tries to figure out what the hell I’m talking about. And I love that I knocked him off his game for a moment, the cocky fucker.

It takes a second but he laughs freely and just shakes his head. “Much better diversion tactic that time around. Mad props, dude.” He sits back in his chair and falls silent for a bit as we watch a heated exchange in the volleyball game that ends in a spike and a slew of curse words at a match point lost.

“So what happened? You must have whipped your little button mushroom of a dick out and scared her off—”

“Fuck off, dude. You wouldn’t know a big dick if it hit you in the face,” I rib him. If the asshole’s going to insult my manhood when I recall one drunken night in our younger years and a ruler that proved differently, I have to at least have a comeback.

The look on his face—shocked amusement—has me biting my tongue. “I assure you I will not be touching someone’s dick—with my face or any other body part of mine—now or anytime for that matter unless it’s me knocking yours into the dirt for being such a fuckwad.”

“The fact that you even think you can take me is amusing.”

“Wow,” he says, tipping his beer up to his lips and overexaggerating the satisfied smack of his lips. “You’re a cranky fucker, aren’t you? No wonder she’s over there and you’re over here. Have another beer, dude,” he says, tossing me one from the bucket on the table, even though I’m not done with the one in my hand.

“Your answer for everything, huh?” I hold up the beer and tip it toward him. “Have another beer?”

“You’re the one talking about Scotch, not me. So what gives?”

I’m torn, not wanting to talk about it but thinking it could help. Get another guy’s opinion—my best friend’s opinion—and as fucked-up as Colton used to be in the fuck-’em-and-chuck-’em department, as Rylee so politely used to put it, he knows me better than anyone. He’ll understand and set me straight. Pull me from the shit in my head that I keep running through over and over and over. Tell me what I need to hear.

Nut the fuck up or shut the fuck up.

I scrub my hand over my chin before shaking my head. “I don’t know, man. She’s spooked, and I can’t figure it out. And just when I think I do, something else happens to make me change my mind about what’s causing it.”

“Well, first off,” he says, leaning forward and placing his elbows on his knees, “most of the time you kind of want your women spooked … prevents them from becoming repeat offenders occupying your bed.”

“That is just wrong in so many ways,” I tell him but can’t fight the laughter at his logic. I point to the ring on his finger. “Says the barebacking, married man, no less.”

He looks over at me with a smug smirk that brings me back to the first time we talked about him barebacking—screwing without a condom because he knew Rylee was the one. And I have to shake my head at that memory because that conversation led to the trip to Las Vegas, where later that night I got my first introduction to one fine-as-fuck Haddie Montgomery.

“Don’t be knocking the almighty voodoo, bro,” he says, pulling me from memory lane, and tilts his bottle in Rylee’s direction. “There’s some serious fucking power there.”

I laugh with him, at him, because there has to be some real magic there if it’s turned the poster boy for how to be a player into a bona fide one-woman man. Her voodoo pussy most definitely had to have had some special powers to transform that fucker.

“Shit,” I say, reaching forward and holding my bottle up to him, “that’s worthy of a toast right there.”

He shakes his head once and a lopsided smirk says it all. “Here’s to nipples, because without them, tits would be fucking pointless.” We clink the necks of our bottles together as the mixture of way too many damn beers and my best friend happy as fuck has me laughing so hard, I take my sunglasses off to wipe my eyes.

Heads around us turn to look at the two of us laughing together, but it’s Colton. I’m used to him causing a scene wherever we go, so I don’t even think twice. But this time when I look up, I lock eyes with Haddie momentarily before she shoots daggers at me and looks away.

“Fuck, that’s like the arctic chill, man.”

“Thanks for the play-by-play, Donavan.” As if I need his commentary on Haddie right now.

“Anytime, brother, anytime. What the fuck did you do to her, anyway?”

“No clue.” I shake my head and then lean back and pull the bill of my hat down over my eyes, my silent gesture that the conversation is over.

“Seriously? You think that hat covering your eyes is going to stop me? You know me better than that. C’mon, dude.”

“Leave it.” I snap the words at him. Then I’m pissed I’m taking my shit out on him because all I keep thinking of is the image of Haddie standing in my place the other night with nothing but heels and a skirt on, nipples hard, hair falling over her shoulders.

And I stopped her? What the fuck is wrong with me? One minute I’m telling myself I’m not letting her go without a fight, and then the next, I wake up alone, her perfume on my sheets, the scent of our sex still on my skin.

Fucking Dante. It has to be because of him. What does he have that I don’t? I’ve never even heard her mention the name of an ex, let alone one who has this strong of a hold on her.

Goddamn estrogen vortex.

It’s fucking with my head because I’m sitting here, thinking about it, when I should be shooting the shit with Colton. Instead, I’m questioning everything: my own thoughts, my own feelings, even Dante.

I keep thinking back to that night, trying to pinpoint how the hell we went from fighting to her crying to her wanting more to her being gone. And it’s her falling apart that I keep going back to. It has to be everything with her sister’s death coming to a head and just exploding all at once since it seems she’s held it in all this time.

Sure we’ve known each other—hung out casually—for the past year and a half, but for a year of that time she was dealing with Lexi’s illness and then the aftermath of her death. I’ve seen her fire ebb. Her defiance slip. And hell yes, she grabs onto it every now and again, but the balls-to-the-wall, take-no-prisoners Haddie Montgomery I met that first night in Vegas seems lost. Feistiness snuffed out. Carefree demeanor now a jumbled goddamn mess of extreme highs and lows.

But hell, even grieving and a shadow of her usual self, she’s that fucking sip of Macallan sitting on a bar lined with every other alcohol known to man. Cream of the crop, top-notch class.

Motherfucking perfection.

And I can’t even think about her taste. Damn woman is addictive. Heat and sweetness, with a fucking mixture of unpredictable thrown in that has just enough edge to make you question what’s going to happen next and where the hell she’s going to take you after that.

And it doesn’t matter really because you know you’re already going along for the ride, regardless of the destination. Heaven or Hell, she makes both sound desirable.

With my prolonged silence, I expect a smart-ass remark about how I must be whipped already or how the ride feels without a saddle, but Colton doesn’t say anything like I’d expect. His trademark use of humor to escape any conversation that’s serious in nature doesn’t come. And I appreciate it, take a moment to be thankful for a friend who’s known me so long he knows I need a minute to wrap my head around everything.

So I start thinking of solutions. How to fix this problem: my wanting her and her pushing me away despite the desire clear as day in her eyes. The alcohol in my blood tempts me to resolve it by walking over to Haddie right now and tossing her over my shoulder. Lock her in a goddamn room with me until she talks, tells me how either Dante or Lexi is preventing something more from happening between us.

I need to get some fucking peace of mind and clarity for the first time since she pressed her lips against mine weeks ago.

“She’s had a rough go of it the past year.” Colton’s voice breaks our silence and probably in the nick of time because I’m about two minutes away from making a scene. My own goddamn emotions are a clusterfuck of chaos—I’m pissed at her for pushing me away, but I also want to wrap my arms around her to take that look of confusion out of her eyes and ease the anger that’s just beneath the surface that’s so tangible, it tinges the taste of her kiss.

“That she has,” I murmur softly, not wanting to elaborate since my thoughts are already owned by it all.

“Ry’s worried about her.”

And fuck, why did Colton have to say that? Because if her best friend is worried, then I’m sure as hell going to be concerned. I keep my hat over my eyes, my head leaned back, and my own voice impassive. “Understandably.”

Silence weighs heavy between us as he figures what to say next because I’m sure my lack of a response to his loaded question is unexpected. “You really fucking like her, don’t you?”

I lift the brim of my hat up and angle my head over to the side to look at him, sure the answer is written all over my face. “Just trying to figure out what to do about it since it seems she only wants to be brown-bagging it.”

He smirks at me. “Keep at it, dude. If Rylee could break me down and cause this,” he says, holding up his hand where his wedding band rests, “then shit, anything is possible.”

I let the slight smile tug up the corner of my mouth, knowing he’s just trying to be a good friend by getting me talking, showing me what could be … but I’m done talking.

Man up, Daniels. I need to start acting.

Nut the fuck up or shut the fuck up.

I’m feeling good, buzz still humming and mind made up as I walk toward the house. I wave my hand toward the pool and the guys I just up and left one volley short of match point, telling them to shut the hell up because I’ll be right back.

We’ve all had more than enough to drink by now, and it’s not like I wasn’t obvious when I saw Had stroll past the edge of the pool and walk inside. That damn bathing suit of hers taunted me like a green flag on race day but with a whole lot less fabric.

And a hell of a lot better prize.

I throw the towel I scrubbed through my hair onto the chair as I catch Colton’s eye across the deck. He has one hand on Baxter’s head and his other arm around Rylee’s shoulders, but the look he gives me—the go take what’s yours one—is followed by a lift of his chin. A silent show of moral support. I see Rylee catch his look and follow it over to me before a crooked smirk follows a shake of her head.

I walk into the house and see Haddie immediately, that perfect backside of hers on display in the skimpy black bikini as she bends over and looks in the refrigerator. I hear the rattle of jars as she moves items around, but I can’t focus on anything else besides the sight of her ass and knowing just what is nestled in between those thighs.

I want her on so many other levels—in fact, I feel like I’m going a little crazy, trying to prove that point—but damn it to hell if I don’t want her on this level too. Tanned, toned, and tempting.

And just this simple sight has me reaffirming my decision from earlier. At all costs. That’s my new motto. I am going to make it so that Haddie Montgomery can’t resist me. Use the sex she seems to use as a shield around her to my advantage. Reel her in and then force her to understand that whatever the hell she’s running from she doesn’t have to worry about with me.

The question is, how exactly am I going to do that?

I mean the sex part is a no-brainer, but I need to make sure she doesn’t rabbit the minute it’s over. And tying her to the bed most definitely sounds like one hell of a dick-hardening option, but in the end, it earns me no trust. So my object is to make her want, make her ask for it, confuse the hell out of her. Make her want like I want, but then refuse her just like she does me.

Because I know she desires more—I can see it in those eyes of hers. I just have to figure out what it is that’s going to break down those goddamn walls but still make her feel like she’s protected from whatever it is that’s hurt her.

So I stare at the curve of her hips and decide to make my move. I step forward and murmur, “Excuse me,” when I push the door open a little wider with one hand while my other hand rests conspicuously atop the swell of her ass. I feel her body jolt, hear the startled gasp fall from her mouth, and can’t deny that surge of electric current that charges through me when we touch. It’s like a fucking live-wire that causes a momentary short circuit in my thoughts as it weaves around my balls and tugs them with the goddamn strings that are already laced through my heart.

The woman makes me feel in ways I never expected. It should be me who wants to bolt, but for some reason it makes me want her even more. Everything about her draws me in, hooks me, mesmerizes me.

Goddamn it to hell. She’s my voodoo.

And it’s not like that fact scares me. Fuckin’ A, it should when I’m content meandering through the dating field for a while longer, but shit, there’s just something about Haddie that’s indescribable.

The sip of Macallan that ruins you for all others.

So I figuratively grab my balls with both hands and jump in feetfirst, hoping she’ll be the one to help me float because I sure as hell know she’s worthy enough to drown for.

She backs out of the refrigerator, and I make sure to crowd her space. Her body rubs against mine as she stands up. And the feeling of those hard nipples against my bare chest urges every single part of me to hold her against me and claim that mouth of hers. Kiss her senseless so her lips are swollen and pink when I’m done with them.

Startled, she looks up at me with my name falling off her lips in a rush of air from her mouth. We stand like this for a split second, bodies demanding and minds warring before she hurriedly pushes away from me. She seems flustered, and I can see her trying to remember what exactly she was doing before I interrupted her. I know when she remembers because she turns back to the refrigerator and grabs the platter of Jell-O shots I’d distracted her from.

She pulls the tray out, muttering, “Excuse me.” She keeps her eyes averted from mine, and it takes me a minute to steady myself, the mixture of beer and Haddie enough to make a man drunk off his ass.

I shut the door, watching her move the tray to the counter on the other side of the kitchen and start fiddling with the shots, her back toward me. I close the distance, but the words on my lips falter.

“Jell-O shots, huh?” I ask, trying to act as casual as possible, not caring whatsoever because the Macallan in front of me looks a thousand times more tempting than the childish flavors in her colored cups. “What kind?”

“Mm-hmm. Tequila sunrise, I think.”

I know she knows I’m behind her. Can see her hands stop fiddling aimlessly. Her body stills, and her breath hitches. I step into her—itching to touch her in so many ways, and when I see the little cups of orange Jell-O she’s focusing on, I know exactly how to go about it.

Plan of attack figured out.

My front is against her back, trapping her between me and the counter, my hands placed on either side of her hips. The heat of her body, the softness of her curves, and the scent of sun on her skin are enough to make a sane man crazy. I draw it all in—everything about her—as I feel her breath release in a shuddered exhale. It’s the same goddamn sound she makes when I enter her, and hell if that doesn’t make my balls tighten and my dick ache to hear it again.

Preferably on frequent repeat.

I lean my face forward so that my chin scrapes over her bare shoulder and across to the back of her neck. I press an openmouthed kiss there, just below her exposed hairline from her hair being pulled up. I hear the soft sigh begin before she catches it when she feels the warmth of my lips and lick of my tongue. A small thrill shoots through me, knowing I can affect her even after she ran.

Never underestimate the power of a kiss on the neck.

Our bodies are against each other’s, my lips pressed to her nape, and I just remain still so that the heat of my breath can hit her neck. So that she can think and wonder what my next move is going to be.

We stand here in that suspended state of anticipation before I move my mouth ever so slowly to her ear. And I’m not sure if it’s from my breath or just our general nearness, but my resolve to tease and taunt rather than taste and take is strengthened when I see the goose bumps dance across her skin in reaction to me.

“What is it they say you’re supposed to do with tequila?” I breathe into her ear as one of my hands reaches forward to take a little cup, my elbow purposely brushing against her bare torso, and my body pressing harder into hers.

She doesn’t answer, but her body vibrates from our connection. “Something like Lick it …” I let my voice trail off as I run my tongue from the edge of her shoulder up to the curve of her neck. I hear an incoherent moan from her that turns me on in all kinds of ways and feel her body sag some against mine as I taste the salt on her skin.

I hold the shot up in front of us, my languorous trail of kisses stopping right below her earlobe. “Slam it.” I raise the shot up, angling the heel of my hand softly against her breast before bringing it to my lips, her sudden intake of air pushing it farther into me. I toss the Jell-O back, its chill sliding down my throat. I set the empty cup back onto the counter, my dick hardening as it rubs against her lower back. Her inability to speak from her stubborn desire urges me on.

My mouth is back at her ear, an ache so goddamn strong to have her, I’m testing my own fucking restraint here. “I believe the last one is Suck it.” I feel her body stiffen at the words as she anticipates exactly what my next move will be. I pause on purpose, leaving her in that suspended state of desire, wanting her to wonder just that.

After a moment I lower my lips to take the lobe of her ear in my mouth and suck on it before scraping my teeth against it as I release it. This time she doesn’t try to disguise her sound of desire as it falls from her mouth. I grip my hands on the edge of the counter to prevent myself from doing any more because I really just want to slide my hands in the front of her black bikini bottoms and make her come undone.

And not a second after the thought enters my head, my hands are on the move, lust driving their actions. One hand palms her bare midriff, the diamond stud I noticed adorning her belly button just adding fuel to my raging fire of lust, as if I needed any help. At the same time, my other hand slips beneath the soft band of her bottoms and stops just above the top of her clit.

“Becks …” My name is on her lips again, the only one I want to be there. She takes her hands from the counter and wraps them around my forearms. At first I think she’s going to try to stop me, but when she just grips them tightly, I know she’s urging me on. Asking me to take her, drive her to find ecstasy, and fuck me, there is nothing more attractive than a woman who knows what the hell she wants.

I don’t speak, and I’d like to think I made the conscious decision that words are not needed right now, but fuck, my mind is so focused on the slick lips I’ll find beneath my fingertips that I can’t even think clearly. Haddie’s fingernails dig into the skin on my arm as I kick her feet farther apart with my own to gain better access to her heat. I lower my hand, my fingers parting her. I slide them back up to find her clit at the top of her seam and rub my fingers over it ever so slowly and then back.

Her legs weaken beneath her, and I press my hand against her stomach harder so that she can use my body for support. I work the pads of my fingers over her gently at first and then with more fervor as her breath starts to catch and she grinds her pelvis forward and into my hand, her voice silent but her body begging for exactly what she wants. I ease up and lower my fingers to recoat them with her arousal to find her dripping wet.

And as much as my own body is reacting to the knowledge that sweet Haddie is on the verge of coming, that she wants me to bring her there, I know I have her right where I want her. Needing, wanting, desperate for more.

I find her clit again, add in the friction that’s causing her to writhe and buck against me. I hear her breath hitching, feel her muscles start to tense up, and as much as it pains me, as much as causing a woman to reach orgasm is a powerful high for me that I love—it makes me hard as a fucking rock—I stop my fingers.

I hold them still, pressing on either side of her clit but do not move them. I hear her gasp of shock at the pause in sensation, the sudden loss of her orgasm, and the labor of her breathing as she wars desire against dignity to ask for what I’m going to deny her.

“It’s you that I want, Haddie,” I say against her ear. “Only you.”

I let the thought settle within her, my fingers astride her pleasure, my body taut with the pain of restraint as we stand there motionless, chests heaving. “I’m not letting you walk away from me again. I don’t care what your fears are, what your doubts are, who else you’re seeing….” I press a soft kiss on that addictive curve of her neck again, and it earns me a shuddered breath that is sexy and then some. “This orgasm is mine. You will not give it to anyone else, even your own hand. I want you strung so goddamn tight, you beg me to fuck you, beg me to own you.”

She gasps out again, but this time it’s because I withdraw my hands from her. She sags against the counter in respite, effectively breaking every connection our bodies have with each other.

I lean forward, my mouth a whisper from her ear, my breath the only part of me touching her. “And I will own you, but on my terms next time.”

When I take a step back, a soft “Fuck you” falls from her mouth in an unsteady tone as I notice her knuckles turning white from gripping the counter on both sides of her.

I’m curious if she’s holding on to keep herself from grabbing me and forcing me to finish her off or because she wants to slap me. Either one would be hot as hell because at least I’d know I’d gotten a reaction. And that she’s pissed enough to want more.

But her hands remain clenched.

I chuckle, low and taunting, her obstinacy turning me on so much, I have to leave now before I cave under the weight of desire and my ache to take her. “I believe that’s the point.”

I look at her one more time before I turn to go and watch her head fall forward as she tries to rein in everything—emotionally and physically—that I just brought out in her. Good. I got to her.

I walk toward the patio doors and can’t resist bringing my fingers to my lips. I slide them in my mouth momentarily to get a taste of her, of exactly what I’m craving, and have to fight the urge to stalk back and just say screw the plan and instead just take her right here, right now.

Goddamn Macallan.

So fucking addictive I’m going to need AA meetings if this shit keeps up.