15. Xander #3
I grinned, dark and predatory, as I kissed my way back down her body.
With her hands bound, she was at my mercy, writhing as I teased her breasts again, pinching her nipples until they were red and sensitive.
Then lower, my mouth on her core once more, but this time I added a twist—lightly spanking her thigh, the sharp slap echoing in the room.
She jolted, moaning louder. “Again,” she demanded, and fuck if that didn’t make me harder.
I obliged, alternating slaps with soothing licks, building her up until she was begging, her body slick with sweat. When she shattered, coming hard against my tongue, her cries filled the room, her bound hands straining against the scarf.
I untied her quickly, rubbing her wrists as she came down, but we weren’t done.
Not by a long shot. She pushed me onto my back, straddling me with a fierce grace that took my breath away.
“My turn,” she said, her voice a sultry purr.
She grabbed the scarf from where I’d tossed it, tying my wrists now—loose, but symbolic.
The role reversal sent a thrill through me; this woman, so composed in her daily job, was unleashing something wild.
She kissed down my chest, her teeth grazing my nipples, making me hiss.
Her hand wrapped around my cock, stroking firmly as she licked the tip, tasting the pre-cum beading there.
“You taste like sin,” she murmured, before taking me deep into her mouth.
I groaned, hips thrusting involuntarily, but she held me down, controlling the pace.
Slow, torturous suction, her tongue swirling, until I was throbbing, on the brink.
“Enough,” I growled, tugging at the scarf.
She released me with a wicked smile, and in one fluid motion, I flipped us, pinning her beneath me.
My hand found my jeans, and I dove into the back pocket, pulling out the condom I’d had the foresight to bring.
My fingers were surprisingly steady as I ripped the packet open with my teeth and sheathed myself.
Then I entered her in one swift, certain thrust, burying myself to the hilt.
She was tight, hot, perfect, her walls clenching around me like a vice.
We moved together in that classic rhythm, missionary but so damn intense—her legs wrapped around my waist, pulling me deeper, our eyes locked as I drove into her.
But I wanted to claim her in every way. I pulled out, ignoring her protest, and turned her onto her stomach.
“On your knees,” I commanded, my hand landing a light smack on her ass.
She complied, arching her back, presenting herself to me.
I gripped her hips, entering her from behind, the angle hitting deeper, harder.
She pushed back against me, meeting every thrust, her moans muffled by the pillow.
I reached around, fingering her clit, spanking her lightly again—reddening that perfect skin just enough to sting sweetly.
“Fuck, Tara,” I grunted, the slap of our bodies filling the room.
She came again, her pussy fluttering around me, pulling me closer to the edge.
But I held back, flipping her onto her side next, lifting one leg over my shoulder for a new angle.
This position let me go slow, deep, grinding against her as I kissed her ankle, nipping at her calf.
Her hands roamed my chest, nails digging in, marking me as hers.
Finally, I rolled us so she was on top, riding me like the goddess she was.
Her breasts bounced with each movement, her hands braced on my chest as she ground down, circling her hips in a way that made stars explode behind my eyes.
I sat up, wrapping my arms around her, our bodies slick and fused.
“Come with me,” I whispered, thrusting up into her.
She did, her head thrown back in ecstasy, and I followed, spilling into the condom with a roar, waves of pleasure crashing over me until we were both spent.
Afterward, we lay tangled in the sheets, her head on my chest, my fingers tracing lazy patterns across the smooth skin of her back. The sweat cooled on our skin, and the silence in the room was heavy with the truth of what we’d just done. This wasn't just sex. It was a treaty signed in the dark.
“This changes things,” she whispered, her breath a warm puff against my skin.
“It changed the second I saw you the first day at the launch party,” I said, my voice rough. “This just made it real.”
She propped herself up on an elbow, her expression serious in the dim light filtering through the blinds. “We have to be careful, Xander. My father… and Diego. He was asking about me at the facility today, making comments.”
A cold knot formed in my stomach. So she knew. Of course she did. “I know. I was there. I heard him.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “You were there ? In the admin offices?”
I couldn’t help but grin, a real one for a change. “I was conducting my little research.”
Understanding dawned on her face. “The file cabinet. That’s how you got my address.”
“It was a multi-pronged intelligence operation,” I said, enjoying the spark of reluctant admiration in her eyes. “Very professional.”
She shook her head, a slow smile finally breaking through. “You are going to be so much trouble, aren’t you?”
“Sweetheart,” I said, my voice dropping as I pulled her down for another slow, deliberate kiss. “I’ve been trouble since the day I was born.”
I woke up slowly, dragged from a deep, dreamless sleep I hadn't had in years. The first thing I registered was the scent. Not the stale smell of my penthouse, but something else. Something clean, with a hint of vanilla. Tara.
My eyes cracked open. She was gone, but the indentation of her head was still on the pillow next to mine. The events of the night before came rushing back—the raw desperation, the way she’d come apart under me. A slow heat spread through my chest.
I found her in the kitchen, wearing a t-shirts that hung down to her mid-thigh.
Her back was to me as she stood at the counter, her hair a messy knot on top of her head.
For a second, I just watched her, this woman who had consumed my thoughts for twelve years, first as a ghost of the past and now as a wildfire in my present.
“Morning,” I said, my voice a gravelly mess.
She jumped, spinning around. A faint blush crept up her neck. “Morning. Coffee’s on.”
“I’m starving,” I said, leaning against the doorframe. “Got any food in this place that doesn't require a medical degree to pronounce?”
A small smile touched her lips. “I think I can handle some eggs.”
As she turned to the fridge, I felt the need to move, to walk off some of the nervous energy buzzing under my skin. The apartment was neat, impersonal. Muted colors, modern furniture. It felt more like a hotel suite than a home.
"Hey, where's the bathroom?" I asked, heading down the short hallway.
"First door on your right," she called from the kitchen.
My hand was on the knob of the first door when I saw another one, slightly ajar at the end of the hall. Curiosity, or maybe just a subconscious need to know more about the woman I’d just spent the night with, pulled me toward it. I pushed the door open, expecting a spare bedroom or a closet.
It wasn't a bedroom. It was a goddamn command center.
One entire wall was an organized collage of my life.
Press clippings, paparazzi shots, game stats going back to my rookie year.
Red string connected dates and locations, a spiderweb of my personal history.
A grainy photo of me from the night of the accident was tacked right in the center, my face a mask of youthful arrogance and stupidity. It was a shrine to my downfall.
The air left my lungs in a single, silent punch. This wasn't research. This was obsession. Every move I’d made, every mistake, every public triumph and private failure, all cataloged and displayed like a serial killer’s trophy room.
My blood ran cold. The heat from a moment ago turned to ice.
“Tara,” I said, my voice flat, dead. “Get in here.”
I heard a pan clatter in the kitchen. A second later, she appeared in the doorway, a questioning look on her face. "What's wrong?" Then her eyes followed my gaze to the wall.
The color drained from her face so fast I thought she might faint.
The carton of eggs she was holding slipped from her numb fingers and crashed to the floor, splattering yellow yolk across the hardwood.
She didn't even flinch. She just stared at the wall, then at me, her expression one of pure, unadulterated horror.
She hadn't just been caught; she'd been exposed.
“What the fuck,” I whispered, turning to face her fully, “is this?”
“Xander, I… I was going to take it down.”
“Take it down?” I let out a harsh, barking laugh that had no humor in it.
“You’ve been tracking me. For years. Every part of this was a plan, wasn’t it?
Getting me to Miami, becoming my doctor…
getting me into your bed last night?” The last question came out like a snarl, the taste of betrayal bitter in my mouth.
“No!” she said, taking a step forward. “Last night wasn’t part of the plan. It was the moment the plan fell apart.” Her eyes were pleading. “This,” she gestured wildly at the wall, “this was about revenge. It was built on the lie that you killed my brother. It was how I kept the anger burning.”
She walked past me, right up to the wall. With a sharp, sudden movement, she ripped the photo of me from the accident off the corkboard. The paper tore. Then she tore down another clipping, and another, her movements becoming frantic. The red string snapped, falling limp to the floor.
I just watched, silent, as she dismantled twelve years of her own rage, piece by piece. She didn't stop until the wall was bare, leaving only the ghost impressions of where the photos had been. She stood in the middle of the paper debris, her chest rising and falling rapidly, her eyes blazing.
“I’m done chasing ghosts, Xander,” she said, her voice shaking but firm. “This was for a man I thought you were. A monster. It had nothing to do with the man who was in my bed last night.”
I looked from the wreckage on the floor to her defiant, vulnerable face. The ice in my gut began to thaw. She hadn’t just built this wall; she had lived in the prison it created. And she had just torn it down for me.
Slowly, I closed the distance between us, stepping over a picture of myself celebrating a championship win. I reached out and brushed a tear from her cheek with my thumb.
“Okay,” I said, my voice quiet but steady. “No more ghosts.”