Tangled Desires (Wattle Creek #3)

19

S he’s asking me to beg . This woman .

Only Imogen would pull a stunt like that, but fuck if I don’t feel myself crack. She saunters toward the bedroom, hips swaying just enough to ruin me. I’m right behind her, gripping myself through the towel because anything less and I might combust. I’ve been wound tight all fucking morning—so tight I probably should’ve taken those meds. The ones that doctor prescribed me ages ago for my ADHD.

But fuck that. They dull everything, and right now, I want to feel every single fucking second of this.

She pauses in the doorway, turning just enough to give me that wicked little grin. Her hands go to her shirt, undoing each button like she’s got all the time in the world. My gaze locks on the soft skin she reveals, inch by inch, and my breath comes heavier with every tease of flesh. One step closer, and a low growl rumbles in my throat before I can stop it.

Her eyes snap to mine. “Nuh-uh. You know what to do.”

God help me. Pride’s kicking and screaming, but my body’s already halfway there. “You’re serious right now?” She quirks a brow—answer enough. The shirt drops, the skirt follows, and fuck me, there it is: that lace set from the photo. My mouth waters. My hands twitch. Every cell in my body screams grab her . But no, she’s in charge, and her look says wait .

I step in front of her, heat pouring off me. Her finger points down. No words. Just that commanding, smug little motion that has me dropping to my knees. “Take it off,” she purrs, her hand skimming the lace at her hip. My hands dart forward, but she tsks, her smile downright sinful. “Not with your hands.”

Christ. She’s pure temptation, and I’m a goner. Leaning in, I grab the lace between my teeth, pulling it down, slow, deliberate, worshipping every inch of her skin as it’s revealed. The moment the thong hits the floor, she kicks it away, leaving me eye-level with her perfect, slick cunt. My mouth waters. I lean in, hungry, but her hand stops me.

“Nuh-uh,” she whispers, her tone just enough to drive me over the edge.

A growl tears out of me. She’s so close and still out of reach. “For fuck’s sake, Imogen, I’m starving.”

Her laugh is low and teasing. “I don’t hear you begging.”

Fucking hell. There’s no holding back. “Please,” I rasp.

“Please what?” Her sweet tone is all sugar, masking the fire in her eyes.

“Pretty please, Immy, let me fucking devour your pretty cunt,” I grit out. Her eyebrow lifts. She winks. That’s it. Control? Gone. My mouth crashes against her, hands locking on her thighs to pull her closer. The sharp gasp she lets out hits like fuel, and I dive in, tongue dragging over her, tasting her, owning every inch. She bucks against me, her fingers fisting in my hair, and I growl, the sound reverberating against her pussy.

“God, you taste so fucking good,” I mutter, not even waiting for a response before diving back in. The wet sounds of me working her over fill the room, my tongue flicking and circling her clit until her cries come loud and broken. Her hips grind against my face, desperate and demanding, and I chuckle against her, muttering, “Take what you need, baby,” before pulling her even closer.

Her thighs quake against my shoulders, her cries breaking into sharp, breathless whimpers as her body convulses under me, shaking hard. When she finally slumps, I don’t give her a chance to catch her breath. I push her backward onto the bed, crawling over her. She’s still flushed, legs limp, when I flip her onto all fours. My hand fists her hair roughly, tilting her head back just enough for my lips to brush her ear.

“My turn, baby. Grab the headboard and hold on tight, sugar.”

She doesn’t hesitate, her hands flying forward, gripping the wooden slats like her life depends on it. My palm smooths down the curve of her spine, stopping at that perfect ass. I slap it hard, and the sharp crack echoes in the room. Her cry comes out half-surprised, half-wicked, and when I do it again, she moans, louder this time.

“Fuck, you like that, don’t you?” My voice is rough, as I press a hand to her hip and line myself up.

Her answer is a throaty, “Yes, don’t fucking stop—” but it cuts off in a gasp as I thrust forward, burying myself deep.

“Fuccck,” I growl, the sound turning into a harsh groan as I move. Her tight pussy wraps around me, and I don’t hold back. My hips snap forward, the sound of skin slapping against skin drowning out her broken cries. Her hands grip the headboard so tight her knuckles pale. My hand yanks her hair, keeping her arched just enough to meet every thrust, and the other digs into her hip, holding her steady as I drive her into the mattress.

“My girl likes it rough, don’t you, sugar?” I growl, snapping my hips hard against her.

“I’m not your fucking girl,” she spits. I laugh, rolling my hips deeper, just to hear her gasp.

“I beg to differ.” Her moan is all the answer I need. I thrust harder, deeper, and a sharp pang of worry cuts through me. Shit—what if I’m too rough? What if I hurt the baby? My thrusts falter, and she notices instantly.

“Don’t you fucking stop, Harrison,” she growls, glancing over her shoulder. “Don’t you dare, or I’ll strangle your balls.”

Her threat—and the way she pushes back—makes me grin. “Yes, ma’am.” I drive into her, harder, faster, her body trembling and tightening as she nears the edge. My release barrels in, unstoppable, and I grip her hips, slamming into her one last time as we both break. Her scream tangles with my shout, her walls pulsing, milking every last drop as I empty myself deep inside her. She collapses forward, panting, and I sink back on my knees, smirking as I watch her chest rise and fall.

“So, how’s little Harrison doing in there? Probably wondering what the fuck just happened.”

Her scoff is immediate. “Little Harrison? Dream on.”

I shrug. “You don’t know, either. Bet it’s a boy.”

“Girl. Wanna make a bet?”

“Oh, I’m in. What’s the deal if I win?”

Her finger taps her lip. “If you’re right, I’ll admit you’re not as dumb as you look. Publicly.”

“Rude. But fine. I win, you admit you actually like me.”

“Like you?” Her narrow-eyed glare turns playful. “Bold assumption, Price.”

“C’mon, Immy-girl. You wouldn’t be fucking me if you didn’t.”

“Physical attraction and mental attraction aren’t the same,” she snarks, sliding off the bed.

“Keep lying to yourself, sugar,” I tease, watching her head toward the bathroom. Two steps in, I’m up and on her, delivering a sharp slap to her ass. Her squeal is music to my ears. “What was that? Round three? Absolutely.”

Her protests barely make it out before I’ve scooped her up, slamming the bathroom door shut behind us.

We’re sprawled on the couch watching some guy called Mr. Ballen. For once, she’s curled up against me, looking wrecked in the best way. I press a hand to her forehead.

Nope, no fever. Still, this is weird. She’s been different lately—softer, almost sweet—and it’s throwing me off. Maybe the answer’s simple. Just need to fuck her more. Fuck her until she’s satisfied and dazed because apparently, that’s the only time she’ll willingly snuggle up to me.

“What’s your favourite food?” she asks randomly.

“Pasta,” I shoot back without missing a beat. “Oh, peanut butter and honey sandwiches, too.”

Her head tilts. “That’s so random.”

“Yeah, I guess,” I say, scratching my head. “It’s what I had growing up. Mum wouldn’t cook half the time, so Michael and I made do. Peanut butter and honey sandwiches were kind of our thing. Now? A favourite.”

Her gaze softens, and my throat tightens. “What about you?”

“Anything my dad cooks, but lasagna’s the best.”

I make a face. “Lasagna? Gross. Hate it.”

Her jaw drops. “You’re joking, right? What’s wrong with lasagna?”

“Everything,” I deadpan, smirking. “It’s mushy and weird.” She shakes her head, scooting back against the pillow, taking all the warmth with her.

“Next, you’ll tell me your favourite colour’s red,” she huffs.

“What’s wrong with red?” I shoot back. “That’s Michael’s colour, by the way. Gonna break his heart with that attitude.”

“Oh, boo hoo.” She huffs, rolling her eyes.

“For the record, it’s blue,” I add, leaning back.

“Why?”

“Your eyes. They’re the kind of blue that digs in and stays. When you look at me, it’s like you’re peeling me apart. Terrifies the shit out of me, but I love it.”

Her gaze drops to my mouth, flicks back to my eyes, and she clears her throat. “I, uh, need the bathroom.”

I watch her go, my chest tightening with something heavier, sharper than usual. It’s more than the usual obsession I’ve felt. This is bigger. Too much energy is coiling inside me, and there is no way to burn it off here.

“Immy!” I vault over the couch and grab my boots. “I’ll be out front.” Grabbing a bucket on the way out, I step into the fresh air. My hands itch to scrub something, twist something, fix something, anything to clear my head.