33. James
THIRTY-THREE
JAMES
It’s too late to run.
Yet again, I need to walk away. And yet again, I’m powerless to do so.
I swipe a hand down my face, trying to break the damn spell she has over me.
There’s a challenge in her gaze—to stay, to touch her, to watch, to walk away.
Who the fuck knows? But there’s also vulnerability, innocence, and a budding confidence I’d be a monster to squash.
I am a monster, but not that type. I’d never go out of my way to hurt this woman, but that doesn’t mean I’m good for her.
“Stop,” I plead. Accidentally finding her having a private moment in the shower is one thing, but this blatant display is enough to tempt a saint.
As established, I am no saint.
“No one is making you stay,” she breathes as she lies flat on the dining table and cups one of her breasts.
No matter which part of her I focus on, it’s making my pulse thrum beneath my skin.
She’s a siren. Raw beauty personified. I dare any red-blooded man not to be caught in her orbit when she’s like this.
My fingers twitch, my lips still tingling from our kiss.
Damn, she can kiss. It’s never been something I’ve rated, but then again, I’ve shied away from anything soft, romantic, or that which builds connection.
I know how to use my body and my words to seduce, since I was trained by men who did it for a living.
But true raw passion is not something I’ve felt until this moment, and I am wholly unprepared for it.
That’s her superpower... making me question everything I thought I knew about myself.
She stirs something I thought long dead, if I ever felt it at all.
She makes me long for connection, to know someone inside and out.
To find out what makes them laugh, how many types of smiles they have, what their favorite food is, and how they enjoy their drinks.
It’s about roots, a future, and neither of those are on the cards for me. So I have no business even entertaining these thoughts. But maybe I can help a woman who is a survivor find her power and her confidence.
“James,” she groans low, refocusing me back on the way she arches her spine and how she plays with her breasts. She squirms as if she can’t quite get enough. I want to give her that. All of it. Every last thing she can imagine. But can I keep myself in check once I touch her?
“Stephanie, I can’t.”
Her fingers skim over the silk, damp with need, and I swear I can smell her desire from here. It’s in the air, daring me to let go.
“Then leave or watch, but I’m not stopping.”
There’s a challenge in her words. I have half a mind to bind her to this damn table so she can’t pleasure herself. But I think that’s an escalation neither of us needs to jump into.
Not yet.
Nope, not ever.
She hisses as she pushes her hand down her panties, saving or punishing me from a full view. Probably both.
She wriggles and shifts her legs wider. She’s never going to give herself what she needs like this.
Fuck.
Fuck my life.
Fuck Christopher.
Fuck the FBI.
And fuck whoever thought it was a good idea for me to meet her.
I could have happily spent the rest of my time blowing up every asshole associated with the organization I’ve been forced to lead.
But no, the universe didn’t feel that was adequate penance for my crimes.
Instead, it gave me Stephanie freaking King, and who am I to continue to deny the higher powers?
I stay seated and pull my chair closer, then grab her knees and yank her ass to the end of the table.
She sucks in a breath and snaps her head up to meet my gaze.
“You say stop, anytime, and it stops. It doesn’t matter what we’re doing,” I tell her.
She blinks, bites her bottom lip, and nods.
“No, sweetheart, I need your words.”
“I say stop, and you’ll stop.”
“When?”
“Any time.”
“Good girl. Now put your fingers in your mouth.”
She doesn’t hesitate. She removes her hand from her panties and does as she’s told. She moans, and my cock swells against the confines of my jeans.
“How do you taste?”
“Needy, unsatisfied.”
“What do you want?”
“You.”
I trace my finger along the silk of her panties, teasing the swollen lips and clit I can see outlined. “Try again.”
She huffs. “I want you to touch me and make me come.”
“How?”
“However you want.”
My lips curl. She needs to learn the art of knowing what she wants, because left to my own devices, I will deliver it with a little sensual cruelty.
I kiss her inner thigh, and her nipples pebble. “You seem awfully sensitive. Are you still thinking about the guy in town?”
“Who?”
Good answer. I know she was taunting me. I’m not stupid, but sometimes even when you know your buttons are being pushed through manipulation, you can’t help the emotional response. Mine is clear as day. I am one hundred percent jealous of any man who has her attention.
“While you’re staying with me, only two people are allowed to touch this pretty swollen pussy,” I tell her before scraping my teeth over the silk.
Her frown is adorable. “Two?”
“Yes. Me, and with permission, you.”
She snorts. “I don’t need permission to touch myself.”
I lean back. “You’re right; you don’t. But if this is going to work, you’re going to have to trust me, and that includes handing over your pleasure.”
“I do trust you. Please touch me.”
There isn’t anything on this earth that could stop me now.
I shouldn’t have kissed her. I shouldn’t have touched her.
And I definitely shouldn’t have listed all the dark thoughts that caught embers in her eyes.
But it’s too late. I can give her what she needs without going too far.
I can help her find pleasure and confidence without the danger many men would present when gifted that trust. I can show her how to maintain control even when she hands it over.
I can teach her what it means to do this safely and how to spot the predators.
Now I know I’ve lost my mind when I’m reasoning I’m the bar her future partners should reach for.
I breathe her in, and she groans, even from that light sensation. There’s no way I’m leaving this room without tasting her. It would be more of a torment to leave it to my imagination.
I hook my fingers into the sides of her panties and pull them over her curvy ass and off her legs. I leave the boots on, enjoying the view of her laid out like a feast.
She’s waxed, soft, swollen, and so fucking wet it glistens.
I grip her knees and push them apart, wanting a slight burn in her muscles that grounds her, but nothing too much. Her knees touch the wood without much resistance, and my brows quirk.
“What? I do yoga,” she murmurs.
Well, that’s going to make things interesting.
My nose nudges her clit, and her chest lifts, her hands fisting at her sides.
“Do you enjoy it when a guy goes down on you?” I should sit her down and figure out what she already knows she likes.
“I have no idea. Looks fun, though.”
My head jerks up. “What do you mean you have no idea?”
She blinks. “Exactly what I said.”
“Nobody has ever put their mouth on you?”
“No.”
“Then brace yourself, sweetheart. This might be a little intense.”
My head spins at the first lick of her. There’s no way she should taste of berries here. It’s a mindfuck. A spell maybe? Because she’s sweet and addictive no matter where I put my mouth.
I work out a rhythm that makes her gasp and squirm beneath my hands. My tongue flicking against her swollen clit before sweeping through the ambrosia leaking from her pussy.
“Stop treating me like I’m fragile,” she demands.
I grin as our eyes meet, and I push two fingers inside her.
Her spine arches, and she curses. Jesus, she’s tight.
I panic for a hot second that I’ve hurt her, but then her walls ripple around my fingers, gripping them tight enough to make me pause.
I massage in small circles, coaxing her body to reach that high.
“Oh my god,” she hisses. “Don’t stop.”
I wouldn’t dream of it. She’s so close, but she might need… I lift my mouth away and with my free hand, slap her clit, hard enough to sting and to gather the extra rush of blood. My mouth latches around her clit, and I suck hard.
She comes with a scream. Her chest flushes beautifully, followed by her cheeks.
I take a minute to bring her down, taking care not to overstimulate.
“That was...” she begins, then laughs.
“What?” I utter, standing to lean down over her. I grip her chin. “It was what, sweetheart?”
Her eyes flick between mine, trying to read my emotions. I don’t want her guessing. She doesn’t deserve to wonder if I regret anything.
“It was my first, and I think I’m in trouble, because it’s hands down the best orgasm of my life.”
I tilt my head. “What do you mean, your first?”
She’s not a virgin—her violent history proves that—but I doubt at that age she was, anyway.
“My first time coming with someone else. Well, technically my second being in the same room as you, but my first non-solo adventure. I’m sorry. I’m rambling. I ramble when I’m nervous. Oh, will you look at that? I think it’s time for a nap. Not that I’m expecting you to take me to bed or anything.”
“Stephanie?”
“Yeah?”
“Shut up.”
I kiss her deeply, letting her taste herself on my tongue. When I pull away, she looks thoroughly dazed. Perfect.
I scoop her into my arms. She giggles and wraps her hands around my neck. “What are you doing?”
“Bath time before nap time.”
“You don’t own a bath.”
“No, I own something better.”
“Like what?”
I grin down at her. “A hot tub.”
The look of excitement is everything I never knew I needed, and too late I realize it’s not her that should be running from me; it’s me from her.