Chapter 5 #2
My mouth went dry. Her nipples were hard, pressing against the grey cotton I had refused to let her lift higher.
"Good girl," I praised.
The words hit her like a physical blow. Her knees buckled slightly.
"You like that?" I asked, watching her pupils dilate. "You like being told you're good?"
"Yes," she whimpered. A confession.
I ran my hand up her bare stomach. My palm was rough against her soft skin. I felt her abdominal muscles contract under my touch. I traced the line of her ribs, feeling the frantic beat of her heart underneath.
I moved my hand higher, cupping her breast through the shirt. She arched into me, a moan escaping her throat.
"Please," she begged.
"Please what?"
"Touch me. properly."
"Not yet."
I moved my hand down. Past her ribs. Past her navel. I hooked my thumb into the waistband of her panties.
"Spread your legs wider," I said.
She obeyed. She wrapped her legs around my waist, her heels digging into my lower back, pulling me closer. The friction was incredible. I was hard—painfully, stone-hard—pressing against her through our clothes.
I slid my hand inside her panties.
She was soaking wet.
A growl tore out of my chest. It was a sound of pure possession. She was ready. She was waiting. And she was mine.
I found her clit with my thumb. She cried out, burying her face in my shoulder to muffle the sound.
"Graham, please," she sobbed. "I can't... it's too much."
"Take it," I whispered into her ear. "You wanted my attention? You have it. All of it."
I started to move. A slow, rhythmic circling. I wasn't being gentle. I was being precise. I treated her body like I treated the ice—with total, calculating control. I watched her face as I worked her. I watched the way her brow furrowed, the way she bit her lip until it turned white.
"Look at me," I commanded.
She opened her eyes. They were unfocused, swimming with tears.
"I am the only one who gets to see this," I told her, my voice dark and rough. "Not Miller. Not the frat boys. Me. Do you understand?"
"Yes," she gasped. "Only you."
"Say it."
"Only you, Graham. Only you."
I increased the pressure. I slipped two fingers inside her, stretching her, while my thumb kept up that relentless rhythm.
She shattered.
It wasn't a graceful climax. It was a messy, desperate thing. She clamped down on my fingers, her entire body bowing off the counter. She screamed my name, a broken, high-pitched sound that I swallowed with my mouth, finally crushing my lips to hers.
The kiss was violent. It tasted like charcoal and coffee and lust. Our teeth clashed. tongues battled for dominance. I devoured her, drinking in her moans, feeding off her surrender.
She rode out the waves of her orgasm against my hand, trembling violently in my arms.
When she finally went limp, collapsing against my chest, I didn't let go. I kept her pinned there, my hand still resting intimately between her legs, my forehead resting against hers.
We were both panting, the sound loud in the silent apartment.
My own body was screaming for release. I was so hard it hurt. I wanted to rip her panties off, lift her hips, and bury myself inside her until neither of us remembered our names.
But I couldn't.
Not like this. Not when she was vulnerable. Not when the contract was the only thing keeping us from destroying each other.
I slowly withdrew my hand.
Faye whimpered at the loss of contact. She kept her eyes closed, her face buried in my neck.
"Graham?" she whispered. Her voice was wrecked.
"I've got you," I said, my voice thick. "I've got you."
I pulled her shirt down, smoothing it over her hips. I kissed the top of her head.
"Can you stand?"
She nodded against my chest, but she didn't let go of my shoulders.
I lifted her off the counter and set her feet on the floor. She swayed, and I steadied her, my hands lingering on her waist.
She looked up at me. Her face was flushed, her lips swollen, her hair a mess. She looked thoroughly, beautifully ruined.
"You stopped," she said. It was an observation, not a complaint.
"I did."
"Why?"
I reached out and wiped a smudge of charcoal from her cheek with my thumb.
"Because the first time I'm inside you, Faye, it’s not going to be on a kitchen counter while I’m worrying about your curfew." I looked deep into her eyes. "It’s going to be in my bed. And I’m going to spend all night proving to you that I’m the only man who can handle you."
Her breath hitched. Fear and desire warred in her eyes.
"Go to your room," I said softly. "Before I change my mind."
She hesitated. She looked like she wanted to argue, or maybe kiss me again. But the "Good Girl" won out.
"Okay," she whispered.
She turned and walked toward the hallway. Her legs were shaky. I watched her go, watched the sway of her hips, the way my shirt hung off her frame.
When her door clicked shut, I let out a long, ragged breath. I gripped the edge of the counter, the marble cool under my palms, trying to ground myself.
I looked at the sketchbook she had left on the table.
I walked over and picked it up.
The drawing was rough, unfinished. But it was unmistakable. It was me. Not the hockey player. Not the Governor. It was just... me. She had captured the exhaustion in my eyes, the tension in my jaw, but she had softened the edges. She had drawn me like I was something precious.
I closed the book.
I was in trouble.
I wasn't just attracted to Faye Allister. I wasn't just obsessed with her.
I was falling for the chaos. And I knew, with absolute certainty, that when we finally crashed, it was going to destroy us both.
I turned and headed for the shower, knowing that no amount of cold water was going to wash her off my skin.