9. Chapter 9
Walking inside James Oakley’s apartment feels surreal. It’s everything and nothing like I expected. It’s both extremely barren and homey somehow. He has a grey couch, a TV on the wall, and a coffee table in the living room. But what pulls my curiosity is the stack of books on the table, as well as the bookcase off to the side.
The bookcase is overflowing with tons of books chaotically lined up two rows deep, and I’m immediately drawn to it. I hear Oakley put my bag on a table before moving to what I assume is the kitchen.
“You want something to drink? I have pretty much anything you can get downstairs.”
“Umm, sure. A root beer sounds good,” I say absentmindedly because I just found something very interesting.
My books. Every single one of them, by the looks of it, lined up perfectly on their own shelf. The only shelf that looks pristine.
My heart rate doubles, and I can’t hold my grin back.
Mr. “I’m a loner and keep to myself” isn’t so out of the loop in this town, it seems.
“Here you g— Oh, shit.”
I turn around just in time to see that super adorable blush take over his cheeks and neck.
“So, were these pre- or post-helping me with the current book?” I ask, genuinely curious but also wanting to mess with him a little.
“Umm…”
”It’s sweet, really.” I try so hard to reel in my smirk but fail miserably.
“Listen, I got curious one day after I heard someone talking about it and picked one up. I really liked it, so I just kept reading them. Don’t go getting all cocky on me.” He’s trying so hard to make it not seem like a big deal, but to me? This is a huge deal. It’s also beyond flattering.
“Oh, I think I’m going to get very cocky about this.” The smile on my face is so big my cheeks start hurting almost immediately. But I love this. I love his shyness about this, that he loves my books, and that he took care of my books like they hold a special place in his head and home. It’s also the sexiest thing a man has ever done.
It’s not like men haven’t read my books as a way to get into my pants before, but with Oakley, it’s something else entirely. And that was in college, when they were all assholes anyway. Oakley is not an asshole. In fact, he’s the exact opposite, and my very Oakley-centered libido is waving the white flag.
He puts the drinks he grabbed from the refrigerator on the coffee table, and it’s like his whole demeanor changes.
“You want me to tell you how fucking good of a writer you are?” He arches one eyebrow but there’s a playfulness to his tone, and I’m excited to see more of it.
“I would love to hear how good you think I am.”
“I think your mind is brilliant. It’s fascinating and slightly messed up.” Laughter shocks me along with his accurate observation. He smiles at me as he continues, taking a step closer to me. “The woman I know and the writer I know are so different it makes me want to figure out how you come up with the stories you do. It’s— You’re intriguing as hell, Will.”
I close the gap between us, pleased as hell at his analysis of me and more flattered than I’ll ever let on. But what I can’t stop is my hand moving up to brush my fingertips against his chest, right over his heart, before sliding up and around his neck.
“Willow…”
“I’m not reading this wrong, am I?” I ask sweetly, already knowing the answer if the bulge in his jeans is anything to go by.
He doesn’t answer me with words. No, what he does is so much fucking better. He uses one hand as a boost under my ass, lifting me up with zero strain. I wrap my legs around him, gripping his neck as my eyes go wide at the insane show of strength. Being wrapped around him also makes me keenly aware of our size difference.
But then I feel his erection digging into my legging-clad pussy, and all thoughts disappear as an unbidden moan sounds from my throat. I feel us moving, but my mind is too hazy with lust to know where until my back is slammed against a wall. His lips go to my neck, kissing and nipping.
“No, you aren’t reading this wrong.” He punctuates his words with a sharp thrust of his hips, making me gasp and pull my head away.
That’s when I see we’re right next to the bookcase, right next to my books, and somehow that little detail lights me on fire. He doesn’t just like my body or my sexuality; he likes my brain. He likes my fucking brain.
Is there anything sexier than that?
Not to me.
I roll my hips, causing him to growl against my neck before taking those kisses and nips to my collarbone and the shoulder that’s exposed. Throwing my head back, I take in how I’m feeling.
Hot.
Impatient.
Sexy.
Irresistible.
Horny.
I have never felt so turned on by a man in my life, and I feel antsy, jittery, and on the verge of being overstimulated. But I roll my hips again because horny wins out above all else.
His big hands slide up my rib cage, under my shirt, before his lips make their way back up my neck and across my cheek into the sweetest kiss that almost breaks me, before he pulls back slightly.
“I did not expect this,” he says plainly. No inflection, just facts, and I love it.
“I can’t say I’m disappointed,” I breathe out as his hips roll again. The grin on his face as I struggle to talk makes me bite my lip with a smile.
“I just want verbal consent before it goes any further.”
Well, damn, just when I thought he couldn’t get any sexier. His brown eyes shift back and forth between mine, waiting for my answer.
“I’m so ready to take this further. Do your best, James Oakley.” I wink then squeal as he spins me off the wall and walks the few steps to a door, which I assume leads to his bedroom.
“I was kind of hoping for wall sex,” I pout.
“There’ll be time,” he says before tossing me onto his bed with no exertion.
His hand moves to the back of his neck, reaching behind him and ripping his Henley off.
Holy Jesus, did I say he couldn’t get any sexier? I lied.
Muscles, lean muscles, cover every inch. He’s not bulky, but his height causes him to look bigger overall. The faint dusting of dark hair covering his chest makes me squeeze my legs together. What’s interesting is that the sleeve on his left arm are the only tattoos to be seen, and I’m more curious about them by the minute. When my gaze travels up to his face, he’s biting his lip, trying to hide his smile at me checking him out. He’s doing a piss-poor job of it too.
“Go ahead, be proud of yourself. You’re gorgeous,” I tell him bluntly. I’m not going to hide the fact that he’s sexy as hell. I mean, we are about to have sex, right? Why sugarcoat it? It wouldn’t be in my nature anyway.
“Never been called gorgeous before.”
“Well, that’s a damn shame,” I mutter, taking another perusal down his body, ending on the very obvious dick outline in his jeans.
“Take your leggings off, Will.” A command. So fucking sexy, I can just imagine how he would take control of his team as a Marshal.
I tip my head back, blowing out a steady stream of air in a weak attempt to calm my overactive body.
“Now.” His grunt startles me into action.
I fumble to hook my thumbs into my leggings, planting my feet and thrusting my hips at a weird angle to try to get them over my ass. He doesn’t move, doesn’t help. Just watches the path the offending material takes down my legs.
Once they’re off, I reach up and start lifting up my T-shirt.
“No, stop. I have plans for that.”
I tilt my head in question, but he doesn’t answer me. Instead, he moves his hands to the button on his jeans, flicking it open and sliding the zipper down. He leaves it like that, the fucking tease, slowly walking to the edge of the bed.
My brain starts working overtime. What’s he going to do with my T-shirt? Should I have taken my panties off too? Should I try to help him take his jeans off? Is that what he’s waiting for?
His hands touch the outside of my thighs, jolting my attention back to him.
“Get out of your head. Be present with me.” His voice is low and gravelly.
“It’s hard for me to get out of my head,” I tell him honestly. This is why orgasms are hard to come by for me. I have a very specific way to get off because it’s quick and my brain doesn”t seem to factor in.
“Well, let’s see if I can help with that.” He reaches under my shoulders and shifts me up about a foot before he puts a knee on the bed, in between my legs.
Before I have time to question his words, both hands slide back under my shirt, slowly drawing it up my rib cage.
“I’d like to try something, but if you aren’t a fan of restraints, then I won’t do it,” he says quietly, and his eyes shift up to mine.
“Umm, I’ve never personally been restrained, but I’ve read about it.” I roll my eyes at myself before continuing, “I’d be interested in trying it.”
I don’t need to tell him that just him asking me about being restrained pulls my orgasm so damn close to the surface that I’m concerned what will happen when he actually does it.
The earnestness in his eyes shifts to wickedness, and I feel out of my depth.
But I know I’m safe with him. Hell, if there is anyone to explore some things with, it would be this man.
Wordlessly, he drags my shirt up over my head, pulling my arms up as he continues to lift the fabric. When he gets to my wrists, I’m focused on his bare chest pressed against mine, only covered by a flimsy lace bralette. He feels so good; the weight of him feels grounding, and the anxiety and overthinking I usually feel in general are silent.
My wrists feel free again, and he lifts himself off of me. He tips his head down, trailing kisses over all of the exposed skin he just revealed.
It has me squirming, trying to get friction, but I can’t because he’s keeping himself away from where I really want him.
I feel his hands slide up my ribcage again and tuck his fingers under the lace that’s covering my breasts.
“Still good, Will?”
“So fucking good,” I breathe out.
The lace of my skimpy bra pops over my breasts before he slides it up and over my head, the same, slow route my T-shirt took.
When he gets to my wrists this time, he twists my bra around my wrists a couple of times, creating a makeshift handcuff.
“Jesus, Willow, you are fucking stunning.” He pulls back so his gaze focuses on what he just exposed.
“They’re small.” It’s long been one of my biggest insecurities. I’ve come to like them for the most part, but him seeing them makes old insecurities come to the surface.
“Oh, I’m going to have fun showing you just how attractive I find them. How do your wrists feel?”
I test the restraint, seeing that it’s tight enough to hold but not cutting off circulation.
“Good. It feels good.” A rush of arousal runs through my body at the realization that I’m letting this man restrain me.
A devilish smile works its way onto his face, and I know without a doubt I’m unprepared but oh so willing to go along with anything he does right now.
“I just wanted it noted that this feels extremely lopsided right now. You still have your pants on,” I deadpan in an attempt to take back a little control.
It’s not that I want the control. I’m just so used to it being my default that I don’t know how to get out of the mindset.
“You’re still in your head,” he tsks. “Guess I’ll have to try harder.”
“Wha—” I don’t even finish my question because his fingertips go straight to my nipples.
Soft circles make my head dizzy because it’s not enough. My frustration starts getting the best of me when I plant my feet and thrust my hips up to try to get more.
A hand leaves one of my breasts before I feel it shove my hips down. Our eyes never leave each other’s during any of this.
He doesn’t say anything, but I get the message loud and clear.
He arches his eyebrow in silent question, and I nod my head in response. I’ll behave. I’ll let him control.
His hand leaves my hip and returns to my nipple, both hard and wanting more. A sharp pinch has me gasping.
My head tilts back as he alternates soft circles with more intentional, harder rolling between his fingertips.
“Eyes on me.”
My eyes pop open and refocus on him as I nod again.
“This whole time, eyes on me. I need to see your reactions, see that you’re okay.”
“Okay,” I whisper, not knowing how to respond to such care and dominance.