Chapter 13 Sara #2
I slide my hands down his chest, over his rock-hard stomach, down to the sharp line of his belt.
His breath catches.
“What are you doing, little one?” he murmurs, low and dangerous.
I drop to my knees, and his eyes go black.
“Proving I belong to you,” I say softly, undoing the buckle with trembling fingers. “Letting you forget her. Forget everything but me.”
A muscle jumps in his jaw. His hand cups the back of my head as I free him from the expensive fabric, hard and thick and already straining for me.
“Fuck, Sara…”
I kiss the tip, slow and soft, teasing, tasting him. His hiss of breath curls through the quiet coatroom.
“You’re so good like this,” he mutters, fingers tightening in my hair. “On your knees for me. Look at you…”
I flick my tongue over him, swirling, slow and sweet, until his hips jerk. Until his control starts to fray.
His hand tightens. Gently holding. Guiding. But letting me set the pace.
I slide him deeper, savoring the weight and heat of him, my pulse racing as he groans, low, dark, rough.
“That’s it, sweetheart,” he breathes. “Take me. Just like that…”
I hollow my cheeks, working him with my mouth, my tongue, loving the way his body shudders. The way he braces his hand against the wall as if he might fall apart.
Power hums through me.
I’ve undone Nick Ashford. In a coatroom. At a gala.
And he’s loving every second.
“Fuck… you’re perfect,” he growls, voice raw, wrecked. “So fucking perfect…”
I pull back slowly, letting him slip free with a soft wet sound, looking up at him, my lips swollen, my breath unsteady.
His stare could burn me alive.
His mouth crashes against mine as he drags me to my feet. My legs are shaky, my lips wet from him, my heart pounding so hard I feel drunk on it.
Nick spins me, pressing my back to the wall, his big body pinning me in place. His hand cups my throat, just enough to remind me who’s in charge, as his other hand slides up my thigh, dragging the dress higher, baring me.
“No more teasing,” he mutters, voice dark and rough against my ear. “I need to fuck you, Sara. Right now.”
I gasp, breathless. “Nick, we can’t… someone could come…”
“Let them.” His lips curl in a wicked smile as he nips at my jaw. “Let them see who you belong to. Let them hear you fall apart for me.”
Oh god.
I should say no. I should. But my body arches into him, desperate, reckless. I want this. I want him.
His fingers hook in the delicate lace of my panties. The soft fabric gives way with a sharp rip that echoes in the small room.
The foil crinkles as he tears the condom wrapper open with his teeth, his dark eyes never leaving mine. I bite my lip, heat flooding my cheeks, and lower, at the sheer, sinful care he takes sliding it on over his thick length.
Slow. Controlled. Even this moment is his.
One hard thrust… and he fills me.
I gasp, biting back a moan that threatens to echo down the hallway.
“Quiet, baby,” he murmurs, dragging his mouth along my ear. “Be good. Be silent. Can you do that for me?”
I nod, helpless, eyes fluttering shut as he pulls back and drives into me again, deeply, perfectly.
The sound of his hips slamming into mine is obscene in the quiet of the coatroom. Each stroke pushes me harder into the wall, my dress bunched around my waist, his hand clamped over my mouth to smother the little cries I can’t hold back.
“Feel how tight you are,” he mutters, teeth scraping my neck. “Like you were waiting for this. Needing it.” His free hand grips my hip, holding me open for him, using me.
I moan against his palm, my body burning, clenching around him as heat coils low in my belly… dangerous and fast.
“That’s it,” he growls. “Come for me, sweetheart. Right here. Right now. Let go.”
His hand slips between us, fingers finding my clit, circling mercilessly as he fucks me into the wall, deeper, harder, until my body snaps.
The orgasm hits like a fire bomb tearing through me, and I sob against his hand, shuddering, breaking, falling apart while he keeps driving into me, his own control slipping.
“Fuck… Sara…” he groans, jerking, losing rhythm as he buries himself deep one last time and shatters, pulsing hot and hard inside me.
We collapse against the wall, gasping. Shaking.
His forehead presses to mine. His hand strokes my cheek, gentle now. Reverent.
“Mine,” he whispers again.
And god help me…
I want to stay his.
Even if someone is right outside that door.
I am absolutely not freaking out.
Nope. Not me.
I shut the door behind me with a quiet click and lean against it for a minute, breathing in the familiar smell of my apartment.
Coffee, lavender, and the faint scent of Meatball’s dog bed.
He lifts his head when I walk in, gives me a judgmental blink from his squished little face, and promptly flops back to sleep.
At least someone in this apartment knows how to relax.
I yank off the satin heels, desperate to be free of them. They scatter across the floor, ending in a sorry pile by the couch. Poor shoes. They didn’t sign up for this night. Neither did I.
I press my fingertips to my lips, still tasting the burn of Nick’s kiss, his hands, his heat, the way he whispered in my ear as if I was the only thing he’d ever hold onto.
God help me, I liked it.
I really liked it.
I groan softly and drag myself toward the kitchen, unzipping the green satin gown as I go. It slips off my shoulders and puddles onto the floor. Probably shouldn’t leave it there, but whatever. The dress and I have been through enough for one night.
As I pass the mirror in the hallway, I catch a glimpse of myself. Wild hair. Smudged lipstick. Marks blooming along my collarbone where Nick’s teeth were far too enthusiastic.
Great. I look like I’ve been debauched by a billionaire in a coatroom.
Which… I guess I have.
I groan and grab an oversized T-shirt, my ancient pizza graphic one, and pull it over my head, burying all that satin and temptation and bad ideas under soft cotton and elastic. Better. Safer. Less likely to invite more disasters.
I pour a glass of wine, settle onto the couch, and fix my gaze on my phone resting on the coffee table, feeling every bit of the silent challenge it throws at me.
He said he’d text when he got home.
He hasn’t.
I stare at the screen. Dark. Blank.
It’s probably fine. Maybe something happened on the way home. Maybe he’s sorting corporate crises. Maybe he forgot.
Maybe he meant to forget.
Ugh. Stop it, Sara.
I pick up the phone. Check again.
Still nothing.
“Just… don’t get comfortable. Nick always needs someone. Until he doesn’t.”
A strange flutter twists low in my stomach, tight and sour, as Rebecca’s words flood through me once more. Champagne and nerves, probably. Or maybe those two sad shrimp puffs I wolfed down while pretending to be rich and comfortable. I set the wine glass down. My mouth tastes weird anyway.
The flutter turns to a flip. A slow, unpleasant roll.
No. Nope. Not this. Not tonight.
I bolt for the bathroom just in time, dropping to my knees. Great. Fancy dress, billionaire boss, secret coatroom grope fest, and now this. The glamorous life of Sara Brooks, everybody.
When I’m done heaving, I sit back against the wall, sweating and shaky.
Probably stress. Definitely stress.
Nothing else.
I swipe the back of my hand over my mouth and try to breathe.
No. Not even going there.
I need to go to bed. To sleep this night off. To stop wondering what the hell I’m doing all the time.