Chapter 5 #2
I moved my hands down, gripping her hips, digging my fingers into her soft flesh. I lifted her slightly, pressing her back against the costumes.
She made a noise—a small, mewling sound in the back of her throat. It was the most erotic thing I had ever heard.
I pulled back, just an inch, needing to see her face.
She was wrecked. Her lips were red and wet. Her eyes were glazed. Her hair was falling out of its messy bun.
"Say it again," I demanded, my voice rough, unrecognizable to my own ears.
"What?" she gasped, blinking up at me.
"Say you're tired of being in charge," I said.
I moved one hand from her hip, sliding it up her ribcage, stopping just under the swell of her breast. I felt her heart racing like a hummingbird.
"I am," she whispered. "I'm tired, Liam."
"Good," I said. "Then don't be."
I kissed her jaw, trailing down the sensitive cord of her neck. I felt her shiver, her head falling back to give me access.
"You don't have to think right now," I murmured against her skin. I nipped lightly at the spot where her neck met her shoulder. "You don't have to plan. You don't have to be the Heiress. You just have to exist. I've got you."
"You've got me," she repeated, her voice dreamy.
"I've got you," I confirmed.
My hand drifted lower. I slipped it under the waistband of her sweatpants.
She tensed, her breath hitching.
"Liam," she warned, but her hips bucked forward, meeting my hand.
"Relax," I commanded. "I'm not going to hurt you. Let me."
I slid my hand down, over the silk of her panties. She was wet. So wet it soaked through the fabric.
The realization sent a surge of possessiveness through me so strong it nearly brought me to my knees. She wanted this. She wanted me.
I cupped her, my palm pressing against her heat.
"You like that?" I asked, looking her in the eye.
She nodded, biting her lip. "Yes."
"Words, Sofia."
"Yes," she panted. "Yes, I like it."
"Good girl."
The words slipped out. I didn't plan them. But the effect on her was instantaneous.
Her knees buckled. If I hadn't been pinning her to the rack, she would have slid to the floor. A flush rose on her chest, spreading up her neck. Her eyes fluttered shut.
"Say it again," she whispered.
"Good girl," I growled, moving my hand in a slow, circular rhythm. "So wet for me. Look at you. You're a mess."
She whimpered, burying her face in my neck. She was clinging to me now, her nails digging into my shoulders.
I kept the rhythm steady, teasing her, controlling her. I watched her face—the way her brow furrowed, the way her lips parted. I wanted to memorize every expression.
I wasn't just touching her. I was owning this moment. For the first time, the power dynamic had flipped completely. She wasn't the rich girl with the power. She was just a girl, unraveling in my arms.
"Liam," she gasped, her hips moving frantically against my hand. "Please. I'm close. Please."
"Not yet," I whispered.
I stopped moving my hand.
Her eyes snapped open, wide with shock and frustration. "What? Why?"
"Because," I said, leaning in to kiss the corner of her mouth. "We're in a basement. And the security guard does his rounds in ten minutes."
It was a lie. The guard didn't come down here.
But I needed to stop. If I let her finish, if I let her come apart in my hands right now, there was no going back.
And despite the roaring in my blood, the part of me that was still The Wall knew we were crossing a line that could get us both destroyed.
Also... I realized something.
She was untouched.
The way she moved, the way she reacted—it was raw. It wasn't practiced. She didn't know what to do with her hips. She was following instinct, not experience.
I couldn't take that from her in a dusty costume archive. Not like this.
"Liam!" she whined, the brat resurfacing. She tried to grind against my hand again.
I removed my hand, slowly, pulling it out of her sweatpants. I wiped my palm on her hip, a gesture that was possessive and crude and made her shiver.
"Next time," I promised.
I stepped back, putting a foot of distance between us.
The loss of contact was physically painful. The cold air rushed in.
Sofia slumped against the rack of clothes, looking dazed. She stared at me, her chest heaving, her hair a disaster. She looked thoroughly, beautifully ravaged.
"You..." she started, her voice shaking. "You are evil."
"I'm disciplined," I corrected, though my voice was hoarse. "Fix your hair, Sofia. We have to go."
She glared at me. It wasn't a glare of hatred. It was a glare of unfulfilled desire. It was the look of a woman who had just realized she wasn't in control anymore.
"I hate you," she said, but she reached up to fix her bun.
"No, you don't," I said, grabbing my laptop.
I walked toward the door, my body aching, my mind racing.
I had stopped. I had pulled back. But as I listened to the click of her sneakers following me out of the darkness, I knew the truth.
I hadn't stopped anything. I had just paused it.
The dam had cracked. And the next time we were alone, the flood was going to drown us both.
"Good girl," I whispered to myself in the dark hallway, testing the weight of the words on my tongue.
Yeah. I was in so much trouble.