Chapter 5 Tit for Tat #5
“Shhh,” I breathe, moving my lips to his ear. I nip lightly at the lobe. “I’m seducing you. Stop talking.”
He groans. The sound goes straight to my core.
His control is fraying. I can feel it. See it in the tight clench of his jaw, the desperate hunger in his eyes when they snap open.
Emboldened, driven by a reckless need I don’t fully understand, I shift my hips against his. A slow, deliberate grind.
He makes a choked sound. His hands clamp down on my hips, holding me still. “Jane. Stop.”
“Why?” I challenge, looking up at him. My own breath is coming fast now. “Am I doing it wrong?”
“You’re doing it too damn right,” he grits out.
I’m not sure who moves first.
One second I’m still thinking, still trying to remember what I’m supposed to be doing—and then his mouth is on mine and everything goes quiet.
Not gentle. Not hesitant. It’s hot and sudden and too much in the best, worst way. My breath disappears. My thoughts scatter. His lips move against mine like he knows exactly what he wants, and my body agrees before I can catch up.
His tongue slips into my mouth and I jolt—not away, just open, startled by the sensation, by how intimate it feels, how quickly it makes my knees weak.
A sound tears out of me. Soft. Embarrassing. Needy. I don’t recognize it, but he does. And he deepens the kiss.
My hands fist in his hair without asking permission. I pull him closer because the space between us suddenly feels unbearable.
This isn’t practice. This isn’t a lesson.
This is something inside me waking up all at once.
His hands slide over my back, my sides, settling on my hips—and when he pulls me against him, the hard pressure there makes my breath hitch sharply. The friction is sharp and bright and unfamiliar, lighting me up in places I’ve never touched like this before.
Pleasure hits fast and startling, stealing the air from my lungs. My body reacts like it’s been waiting for this, like it knows something I don’t.
I don’t know what I’m doing.
I only know I want more.
Now, his hands are everywhere. Sliding up my back, down my sides, gripping my hips to grind me down against the hard length of him. The friction is exquisite, maddening. A bolt of pure pleasure shoots through me.
I rock against him, seeking more. He groans, his mouth leaving mine to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses down my throat.
“West,” I gasp.
“More?” he growls against my skin.
“Yes. Oh, yes.”
This time there's no hesitation. His tongue slides against mine, deep and sure. My hands fist in his shirt. My hips roll forward on pure instinct, and—
The seam of my shorts rubs against my pussy with every movement, every desperate grind.
Pleasure coils tight and hot low in my belly.
I’m panting, clutching his shoulders one moment, and in his hair the next, lost in the feel of him, the taste of him, the overwhelming rightness of his hands on my body.
I roll my hips again, chasing the friction.
His grip tightens, guiding the movement, and the pressure is perfect and not nearly enough. I'm gasping into his mouth, grinding and bouncing down against him, and he's groaning like I'm destroying him.
"This isn't—" he starts.
"I know."
"We're supposed to be—"
"I know."
But neither of us stops.
His hands slide down to cup my ass, lifting me slightly, helping me find the perfect angle. I ride the hard ridge of his erection through our clothes, the friction building, building…and I'm climbing toward something I've only read about in very detailed blog posts.
This is insane. This was supposed to be a lesson. But his tongue is doing things that should require a license, and my hips have apparently taken a graduate course in biomechanics because they know exactly how to move.
"That's—" His voice breaks.
I rock again, harder this time, and he makes a sound like I just stepped on his chest.
"Good?" I manage between gasps.
"Devastating."
His hips thrust up to meet mine and—oh holy—the angle changes and suddenly there's pressure exactly where I need it. Right there. Right against the seam of my shorts where everything is hot and aching and—
"Oh—" The sound escapes before I can stop it.
"Again," he rasps. "Do that again."
So I do.
And again.
And again.
My internal narrator has completely abandoned ship. There's no witty commentary. No self-deprecating observations. Just sensation—the friction of fabric between us, the flex of his thighs beneath mine, the desperate grip of his hands on my hips.
"I'm—" I don't even know what I'm trying to say. "West, I think I'm—"
His thumb digs into my hip bone, controlling the rhythm even as his control shatters. "I know, I'm—hell—"
I can feel him beneath me, hard and insistent even through layers of clothing. Feel the way he's straining up to meet every roll of my hips. Feel the exact moment his breathing goes ragged and desperate.
"Jane." My name sounds wrecked. "I'm not—I can't—"
"Don't stop." My fingers dig into his shoulders. "Please don't stop."
His hand fists in my hair, pulling my mouth back to his.
The kiss is messy, graceless, more breathing into each other's mouths than actual technique.
His other hand slides lower on my hip, pressing me down harder, grinding me against the ridge of his erection, and the sensation hits too fast, too bright.
The coil in my belly winds tighter.
"West—West—"
"That’s it, Jane," his voice is a command and a plea. "I've got you. Just—let go."
Something about the desperation in his voice—the way he sounds as aroused as I feel—sends me over the edge.
Pleasure explodes through me, blinding, all-consuming.
I cry out against his mouth, my body arching, shuddering, clenching around nothing.
My whole body locks up, then pulses, waves of heat radiating from my core outward until I'm shaking and gasping and making sounds I will absolutely die of embarrassment about later.
Distantly, I'm aware of grinding down on him without rhythm or grace, just chasing every last spark of sensation.
Through the haze, I feel him go rigid beneath me.
"Jane—" It's barely a word. More like a broken groan.
His hips jerk up hard. Once. Twice. A third time, desperate and uncontrolled.
"Oh—hell—" The curse tears out of him as he comes.
I feel the wet heat of it even through his khakis, feel the way his whole body shudders, feel his fingers digging bruises into my hips as he rides it out.
We stay frozen like that. Both of us trembling. Both breathing like we just sprinted a marathon.
Then my brain comes back online.
Oh.
Oh no.
We just—
He just—
I just made West Prescott come in his pants.
During a lesson.
On a Sunday.
The scent of sex and sea hangs heavy in the air.
“Bathroom,” I mumble, fleeing.
"Jane."
I scramble off his lap so fast I nearly take us both to the floor. Don't look at him. Absolutely do not look at the very obvious wet spot on his khakis. Do not think about the fact that I did that. Do not think about how good it felt to make him lose control.
"Bathroom," I announce to no one. "I'm going to the bathroom now. For... bathroom reasons."
The bathroom is all gleaming marble and totally insufficient for hiding from what just happened.
I brace my hands on the sink. Stare at my reflection.
My hair looks like I stuck my finger in a socket. Lips swollen. Cheeks flushed. Pupils blown.
I just came. Hard. On West Prescott's lap. Through my clothes.
The best orgasm of my life—the only one that didn't involve a battery-operated assist and my own imagination.
And he came too.
"Wow," I whisper to my reflection. "Okay. This is fine. This is totally fine. People have accidents all the time. Professional accidents. Educational accidents. This was basically a workplace injury. OSHA-reportable, probably."
My reflection doesn't look convinced.
I splash cold water on my face and clean myself up with a face towel. Try to slow my racing heart. Try to forget the sound West made right before he came—that broken, desperate groan that's now permanently etched into my brain.
Try to forget that I want to hear it again.
Stop it, Jane.
There's a sound from the other room. Water running. The shower.
Oh, he's in the shower.
I peel off my damp shorts and underwear, leaving them in a mortified pile on the floor. There's a robe hanging on the back of the door—oversized, hotel-white, blessedly impersonal. I pull it on, tying the belt tight.
Then I wait. Listen.
The shower is still running in the other bathroom.
This is my chance.
I crack the door open. Peer out. The living room is empty. West's closed bathroom door shows a line of light underneath, steam probably fogging up the mirror as he washes away the evidence of our spectacularly unprofessional evening.
I dart across the room like a burglar, the robe flapping around my knees.
My suitcase is tucked in the closet by the bedroom.
I dig through it with shaking hands, grabbing sleep shorts and a tank top—clean, dry, normal pajamas for a normal person who definitely didn't just have a mind-altering orgasm during a "professional lesson. "
The shower shuts off.
Shit.
I scramble back toward the bathroom, clutching the clothes, moving on silent feet. Almost there. Almost—
The shower door opens.
I freeze.
West steps out in nothing but a towel slung low on his hips, his hair wet and dark, water still beading on his shoulders. He stops when he sees me.
We stare at each other across the living room.
Me: barefoot in a resort robe, guilty as charged.
Him: half-naked and dripping.
"I'm just grabbing my pajamas," I blurt out, holding up the clothes like evidence.
His eyes track down to the bundle in my arms. Back up to my face. Something unreadable flickers in his expression.
"Right," he says finally. "Pajamas."
"Yep. Very important. For sleeping."
"For sleeping," he echoes.
Another beat of excruciating silence.
Then I bolt back to the bathroom and slam the door.
I lean against the closed door, heart hammering.
That was—
Nope. Not thinking about it. Not thinking about the way the towel hung on his hips. Not thinking about the water on his skin. Definitely not thinking about the fact that I know exactly what's under that towel now. Well, sort of. Through clothes. But still.
I shower quickly, then shove my damp clothes and the robe into the washer-dryer combo so they can’t sit there judging my life choices.
Then I count to sixty. Then another sixty just to be safe.
When I finally emerge, he's standing by the window in clean pants and a t-shirt, staring at the ocean like it personally offended him.
His shoulders are tense. His hands are shoved in his pockets.
The professional mask is back. Locked down tight.
"So," I start, because someone has to say something. "That was—"
"Don't."
"We should probably—"
"Tomorrow." He still doesn't turn around. "We'll talk tomorrow."
"West—"
"Go to bed, Jane."
The dismissal is clear. Gentle, but firm.
Right. Because what else is there to say?
Sorry I made you come in your pants during a lesson?
Thanks for the orgasm, great coaching, five stars, would recommend?
I retreat to the bedroom and close the door.
The bed is enormous. California king. Approximately twelve thousand thread count. More pillows than a Williams Sonoma catalog.
I climb onto my designated side and stare at the ceiling.
My body is still humming. Still warm and loose and satisfied in a way that makes me want to stretch like a cat. My skin feels too tight, too sensitive against the clean cotton of my pajamas.
And I'm about to share a bed with the man who just made me see stars.
Professional distance, I remind myself. This is a fifty thousand dollars-worthy business arrangement. What just happened was a... miscalculation. A training montage that went off the rails. We're both adults. We can handle this.
Except I can still feel the ghost of his hands on my hips.
Still hear the way he said my name right before he lost control.
Still feel the hard length of him pressed against me, the wet heat when he came.
Stop thinking about it. Stop.
Outside, I hear footsteps, then the bedroom door opens.
I squeeze my eyes shut and try to breathe normally. Evenly. Like someone who is definitely asleep and definitely not replaying the last twenty minutes on a loop.
The mattress dips as he climbs in on his side.
We lie there in the dark. Maybe two feet between us. Might as well be the Grand Canyon.
Several minutes pass. I focus on keeping my breathing steady. On not moving. On pretending to be unconscious.
Then: "Jane?"
My breath catches. "...Yeah?"
A pause. Long enough that I think he's changed his mind.
Then: "That thing you did with your hips?"
Oh God. Oh no. We're not discussing this. We are not—
"Don't do that with Blake."
The words hang in the dark. Rough. Possessive. Completely at odds with our "professional arrangement."
My heart hammers against my ribs. "West—"
But he's already rolling over, putting his back to me.
End of conversation.
I lie there, staring at the ceiling, pulse racing.
He just told me not to do that with Blake.
Not "good job practicing."
Not "that's exactly what you should do."
Don't do that with Blake.
Like he wants to keep it for himself.
I should be worried about the implications. About crossing lines. About making this fake thing complicated.
Instead, all I can think is:
Good.
Because some reckless, chaotic part of me doesn't want to do that with Blake either.
I want to do it with West again.
And that's the most dangerous thought I've had all week.