Chapter 3
ARI
“I hate lawyers,” I pant as Nathan Hart, the man I finally came face-to-face with—the man I wanted so desperately to hate but instead found myself undeniably drawn to at the bar tonight—fucks me to the edge of oblivion.
“Your pussy disagrees. You are fucking soaked, Ari.” Thrusting his hips, he slides his cock in and out of me, much faster than he was before, teasing my inner walls, his balls slapping off my ass, and I know I won’t last long as pleasure builds between my thighs.
“How the hell did I end up in your penthouse?” I moan, my breaths coming out in short, stuttered bursts, my tits bouncing up and down with the force of his powerful movements.
“Because after only two drinks you couldn’t keep your hands off me.” His words escape in quick breaths.
Shit. I don’t just hate lawyers, I hate myself right now, because he’s right. What the hell am I doing? I’m going to hell for this, and having sex with Nathan Hart was never part of my plan.
He charmed me, I swear he did.
Nathaniel “Snake Charmer” Hart. That should be his new nickname.
Maybe it is already.
And maybe this is his strength: making whoever he meets feel at ease, hypnotizing them with his charm and good looks to get whatever he wants.
His dry humor and air of power about him are all part of his performance too.
He’s a showman in court; well, that’s what the tabloids say because he fights for clients who have been wronged by megacorporations: medical malpractice, catastrophic injuries, wrongful death; he plays big and plays to win. He’s a show trial lawyer.
Articulate.
Assertive and compelling.
Persuasive.
So persuasive. I’m convinced that’s how I ended up in his bed.
Although, I rack my brain for evidence of that and come up short.
Nothing.
He never asked me to come home with him.
Instead, he challenged me when I said I wouldn’t sleep with him.
Are you sure about that? His words whizz around my head like a washing machine on full spin.
Shit.
I came here on my own free will. I do want this.
I want him.
Which is bad. Terrible.
I feel like a stranger in my own life.
Back at the bar, before I could unpack my thoughts, I kissed him.
I made the first move because I wanted to feel his lips on mine.
I couldn’t resist the way his lips tugged at the edges of his mouth, like he knew exactly what he was doing to me.
Infuriating, really. Every syllable out his mouth kept me hanging on every word and rolled off his tongue like honey.
His confidence had me captivated. I felt every cadence and inflection in his pitch and tone that sent shivers down my spine.
It was too much, the pull toward him, like an atomic handshake or elemental attraction I don’t fully understand.
I’m drawn to him, and I know he feels the invisible force between us too.
The tension, the flirty banter, every look he gave me told me he wanted me.
It became unbearable, and I had to have him, needed to feel his hands on me.
The ones that briefly brushed against my thigh, then my hand.
And before I knew what was happening, my hand was laid over his as the next drink flowed, then I was pulling him outside.
I didn’t stop him when he pressed me against the wall and he cupped my face with those big strong hands of his, all sinewy and dominating, and it was game over.
His kiss was like nothing I’ve ever experienced, filled with passion and longing.
The way his tongue touched mine with gentle dominance, like a maestro leading the orchestra.
A perfect balance of control and emotion, igniting a thunderous crescendo of notes humming through my body.
It was electrifying and left me breathless.
With one flick of his tongue it was like he suspended time, holding me in place, building the anticipation.
While we waited for his driver to pick us up, I begged him—yes, begged, which is most unlike me—for him to take me home.
I’ve never wanted a man as much as I want him.
My clothes were off the minute I stepped inside his obnoxious penthouse, and I had my legs wrapped around him and was riding his cock before we even entered his bedroom.
There is something seriously wrong with me. It’s like I threw my morals off a cliff and waved at them as they crashed into the ocean below.
Who am I right now?
Oh, I know, I’m Ari “The Hypocrite” Donovan.
But this isn’t a romance. There will be no happy ending after I do what needs to be done to bring his family down.
For tonight, I’m choosing to be here. It’s just one night.
And I’m guessing I made the first move because I figured that being in his apartment would work to my advantage, two-fold.
First, I get what I want because it’s been far too long since I had sex.
Second, being here means I’m surrounded by everything him, and I can maybe learn more about the man behind the power suit, possibly gain insight into his weak points, then use it to destroy his family’s law firm.
And, okay, having sex with him wasn’t part of the plan. It’s unexpected, and my shame clings to me like a vice, pressing against my skull, threatening to crack it open, and yet, I’m not leaving.
Can’t, because he has so much control over my body right now, I’m defenseless.
I should leave.
Stay; the sex is great.
My inner sinner wins.
That’s what I will do. I’ll use him for sex and to get what I want, nothing else, because I’m the one in control here, I’m behind the wheel, pushing forward at full speed.
Although it feels like the other way around by the way he’s controlling my body, and every glance, every touch, every whispered word chips away at my resolve, making me question if I truly have the strength to see this through.
But I have to.
I can’t afford to waver. My family deserves justice, and his family deserves to pay for what they did. No matter how much I want and don’t want to be here, no matter how much I crave him, I can’t forget why I came in the first place.
So I’ll take what I need tonight, then I’ll ruin him.
Which is a pity because he’s fucking amazing in between the sheets, and I swear his long cock is trying to puncture my cervix, teasing pleasure from my body and awakening every visceral nerve ending. I’m certain if there was an award for having a beautiful cock, he would win.
I can’t stop the flapping of my heart, it’s as uncontrollable as the tide pulls to the moon, magnetic and unescapable.
“Oh God,” I cry out as my back arches off the bed and the heat between my legs grows hotter, coating his cock in my arousal.
“Not God, baby, it’s Nathan.” He punctuates every word with a hip thrust. “My.” Thrust. “Name.” Thrust. “Is.” Thrust .
“Fucking.” Thrust. “Nathan.” Thrust. “Got it?” he says through gritted teeth as he delivers another punishing drive of his hips.
“Fuck, Ari, you have to come, your pussy is so tight, it’s squeezing my dick.
” Digging his fingertips so hard into the skin of my ass I know they will leave an impression, he holds himself deep as if trying to stop himself from coming.
“Don’t stop,” I beg. I really dislike who I am right now. “Feels so good.” My words come out breathless and needy.
He wraps his hands around my wrists and flattens his muscular tan body against mine, his skin rubbing against my nipples, making them pebble.
His abs should be illegal, and I can’t stop looking at his unbelievably handsome face.
With his dark hair, piercing blue eyes, and muscles for goddamn days that I want to explore more of, he’s like the poster child for billionaire playboys, which I can’t stand.
Beneath all the money, power suits, and private jets, I bet he’s just another spoiled daddy’s brat.
But I love how he’s filling me up, pushing my hands above my head, about to give me one of the best orgasms I’ve ever had.
I know he’s going to ruin me for every other man.
I crumble like a cookie under the weight of my own thoughts and arch my neck back when he licks it, causing a shot of scorching heat to run down my spine.
“Be a good girl and come for me,” he mutters against my skin, pressing my wrists into the mattress.
Nathan crashes his mouth over mine, slipping his tongue between the seam of my mouth, and I inhale sharply when he slams his cock in and out repeatedly, teasing my orgasm out of me.
There’s nothing romantic about this—not even close. It’s rough and carnal. I crave it. I want more.
It’s one night only.
Our tongues touching, they twist around each other, tasting, licking, exploring. It’s sinful and illicit in every way as he pummels his hips into mine. I wrap my legs around his waist to pull him closer to me, because I can’t seem to get enough of him.
It feels so right, so good, when it shouldn’t.
It’s so wrong.
Wrongfully right.
“Come,” he mutters against my lips.
My orgasm hits me with force when he commands me to, and I come so hard I see black mixed with shimmering lights flashing behind my vision.
It corkscrews around my body, unwinding tension and replacing it with intense pleasure, the feeling so euphoric it feels like it’s setting me free.
He comes with me, emptying himself inside of me.
I’m grateful he wore a condom because I’m sure I would be pregnant otherwise as he keeps coming, shuddering, roaring my name as if he’s said it a thousand times before and wearing it like a badge of honor.
It’s hot and hellish in equal measure because I know I’m not special and he probably does this every weekend, each notch on his bedpost mentally recorded in his brain.
“Fuck. Shit. Fuck. Your pussy is…” He grits his teeth together and touches his forehead against mine, his hot breath dusting my face, and he douses me in his spicy scent I want to know the name of.
No, I don’t; he smells like poor choices and bad ideas.