Chapter Seventeen
“Could barely think straight all night when your legs kept peeking out of this dress,” he murmured in my ear as his fingers drifted up, up, up.
He leaned in, his warm breath tickling my neck, his lips not quite making contact, but making me ache for it all the more.
“And this neckline,” he said as his hand shifted away from my leg just as he almost met the apex and drifted up to tease up the bare skin between my breasts instead.
A shiver racked my system.
I knew I needed to tell him to stop, to push him away.
But my mouth was too busy letting out a soft moan as his fingers found my nipple through the dress. And my hands were too occupied by grabbing his arm as he teased me.
His head shifted, his lips pressing into my neck, and I knew there was no stopping this.
I reached for his wrist, pressing it back down my body, then between my thighs.
“Is this what you want?” he asked, fingers sliding exactly where I needed them. “Tell me where,” he said, already knowing, already there.
I bit my lip to hold back a moan as his finger worked my clit through my panties until I was rocking, until I was whimpering.
Only then did his hand slide under the material, working my clit until I was panting for breath, until every muscle was shaking in anticipation of release.
But he wouldn’t give it to me.
Not yet.
“No,” he said, hand sliding away, grabbing me by the back of the knee instead. “If you’re going to come, it’s going to be with my mouth.”
Then he pulled me until I was flat, and he was there, his hand yanking my panties to the side, and his lips and tongue working me.
And I melted into it, into him.
Heat traced through my body. Pleasure pulsed in my veins.
And when his fingers slid inside me, turning, and stroking against my top wall as his tongue teased my clit.
And I came gasping, clawing, crying, gone.
“That,” he said, pressing a kiss to my inner thigh as I struggled to even out my breathing, “is all I could think about all night.”
He shifted back, his hungry gaze on me, offering me his hand to help me sit back up after he completely ruined me.
I took his hand.
But as soon as I was upright, I shifted over, down, until I was on my knees in the footwell.
Harrison’s gaze burned seeing me there.
His breath caught when my hands moved up his thighs.
I palmed him through his slacks, and his hips rocked against my hand, as needy as I’d been just moments before.
I wasn’t in a teasing mood.
I undid his belt, button, and zipper, reached inside, and freed him.
His soft gasp as my hand closed around him had need throbbing between my thighs again.
His breath stuttered as I stroked him down to the base.
His hand landed on my shoulder, fingers digging in.
Then, my gaze tipped up to him, I lowered down and ran my tongue around the tip of him.
His hips bucked.
A soft groan escaped him.
That was all the teasing I had in me.
I sucked him into my mouth and worked him relentlessly, loving his grunts, his groans, his ragged breathing, the way his fingers bruised into the back of my neck, and his hips rocked deeper into my mouth.
His control was as lacking as mine had been.
“Layna, I’m…”
But I didn’t need the warning.
I slid down deeper, letting out a little moan as he bucked deeper still as he came.
He was still panting and boneless as I sat back up and looked out the window.
My hotel was a block away.
But I wasn’t sure I trusted myself to sit in the car with Harrison for another moment when pleasure and emotions were running high.
So I waited until the car stopped at the light, pulled open the door, and rushed out.
“Layna!” Harrison called.
But I was already rushing down the street. Away from him. Away from the confusing feelings spreading through me.
He didn’t chase me.
I wasn’t sure if I was more relieved or upset by that as I rode the elevator up to my floor, kicked off my shoes, and paced my room.
I not only didn’t manage to convince him that I wasn’t a fit for his world, I’d let him enjoy the fact that I was the kind of woman who would go down on him in the backseat of his SUV.
Brilliant work on my part.
I had a feeling that he wasn’t going to give me the same break he had over the past week. Not after he got a taste of having me on his arm. And on my knees.
“Ugh,” I grumbled, throwing my head back as I started tugging at my stupid dress, pulling until it was pooling at my feet. Then I peeled off the fashion tape all down my midsection.
Finished, I took myself into the bathroom, attempting to scrub the feel and scent of Harrison off of me as I tried to figure out what my next move might be—before just accepting weeks or months before my freedom.
It wasn’t until I was knotting my robe and glancing around the bathroom that an idea surfaced.
Because there, spread across the entire hotel bathroom, a place I’d only been staying in for a few days, was the reason many of my cousins barely tolerated me crashing at their places.
My mess.
My makeup was all over the place. My blush had broken in transit, and a smattering of it was all over the marble. I’d forgotten to stick my mascara wand all the way into the tube, so a swipe of it was in the sink where it had fallen.
Then there were two hairbrushes, mousse, dry shampoo, face wash, serums, lotion, and eight—yes, eight—hair ties.
On the floor were the past two outfits I’d worn in a pile.
I was disordered, chaotic, and disorganized. I didn’t usually see a reason to put away an item I was only going to use again in a few hours. I didn’t own a hamper, so it rarely occurred to me to use one when it was available. I left trails wherever I went.
For fellow messy people, it was no big deal.
For the ones who liked a well-ordered home? Hell. Absolute hell.
And who had a very neat home?
My husband.
If he was okay with me not fitting in with his gala friends because it was such a small part of his life, maybe showing him how I was incompatible with his everyday life would work.
Of course, it was going to mean actually being in his space. And that came with all its own issues. Especially since we seemed incapable of keeping our damn hands off each other.
But sharing his space didn’t necessarily mean sharing his bed.
There were several guest rooms I could occupy.
Then just… spread out from there.
I had a key to the elevator. And the security system recognized me.
I could get in while he was at work and get busy creating a mess. Mugs in the sink. Hair ties everywhere. Wet bras hanging in the shower. Clothing trails.
Maybe at first he would be charmed by it because it meant I was giving in, I was in his space, he was getting what he thought he wanted.
But it wouldn’t take long before he got sick of tripping over my shoes, of me eating all his leftovers, of me forgetting to refill the hand soap or paper towels.
It was sure to grate on him slowly over time. Until he finally got fed up, realized he couldn’t live with me forever after, and signed the damn papers.
If I was going to do this, though, I needed more than just my one little duffle bag of stuff.
It was time to take a trip back home, load up on all the junk I’d left at my parents’ house or in a storage unit, and bring it to my new married home.
Then I could spend a whole day making his place my own.
I guess the only question I had left to ask myself was which of the spare rooms I was going to use while I tried to drive my husband away once and for all.