18 #3
I swallow, finding my mouth dry. My own reaction perturbs me—I’m tired of him having the upper hand.
He’s either holding salvation over my head or crafting a lie that uses my desperation against me.
The latter is far more likely. I want him to feel unbalanced, uncertain, just for a moment.
I want to hear his teeth grind and see the telltale flex of his jaw.
He’s not immune to me, no matter how many times he tries to hide his desire with a smirk or a subtle adjustment.
Steeling myself, I mirror his position, tilting forward in my seat so that our faces are inches apart. “And what is it that you want, esteemed Warden?”
“There are a great many things.” He leans back in his seat. It feels like victory, even as amusement curves his lips once more. “And for fuck’s sake, call me Slade. Please.”
I don’t let myself think. I rise to my feet, stepping across the invisible line that divides his side of the compartment from mine. The Warden—Slade—glances up at me from beneath heavy lids, arching a brow in question. Rather than answer, I loop an arm around his neck and swing myself into his lap.
I hear the exact moment when he stops breathing. He goes perfectly, preternaturally still. “Can I help you, little sinner?”
“The benches aren’t very comfortable, are they?” I shift my weight in such a way that my ass grinds against him. Just as I’d predicted, he remains still, statue-like. He doesn’t like teasing when it’s not on his terms—he doesn’t know how to react. This is a man accustomed to control.
“Talin.” He says my name through clenched teeth.
I adjust to glance innocently at him, grinding more firmly into his lap. I can feel him stiffening beneath me. Can see the tic of the slender muscle in his neck. “What?”
“You know what.”
I lean my head against his sternum. His heart pulses steadily by my ear, and I hear the moment when he finally draws a harsh breath. He’s collected himself, but not for long.
I sit back up, gripping his shoulders as I come to straddle him.
Then I press a finger to his lips, tracing a path down his chest and stomach with my other hand.
When I reach the waistband of his trousers, I pause to brush my knuckles against the fabric just below it, feeling the firm ridge of him.
He shutters his eyes, the barest scrape of a moan escaping his chest.
“Can you be silent, Slade?” I ask, echoing the very question he’d posed to me last night.
My lips brush the skin beneath his jaw. Though this is an attempt to torture him, I’m struggling to maintain my focus.
My body is crying out for the friction to resume.
The muscles of my stomach tighten as his fingers weave into my hair, yanking me away from him.
“You’re not doing this.” But a flush has risen in his cheeks, at odds with his furious expression.
“Fine.” I shrug and slide out of his lap, taking care to make the action painfully slow. Before I can fully disentangle myself, he reaches out and grabs my chin, cool fingers digging into my jaw as he forces me to look at him.
“Don’t play games with me.” His voice is silk, perfectly controlled once more. “I’m very competitive.”
“So am I,” I say, taking hold of his forearm and freeing my face from his grip.
He’s frozen as I slide my tongue along the inside of his wrist, over the tattoos there, holding his gaze all the while.
His skin is cool and tastes vaguely of salt.
Finally—finally—I hear his unsteady exhale.
He doesn’t even try to stifle his grunt as I gently bite down.
That tells me all I need to know. I pull back, flashing a demure smile at him before retreating to my side of the compartment. His gaze is daggered as he readjusts himself. I can see the outline of his dick straining against his pants, and I drag my tongue along my top teeth, my smile widening.
If I’m not mistaken, Slade Markovich is a bit of a masochist.
“Okay, little sinner,” he says softly. “I see how it is.” I expect him to make a move in return, but he only pulls a pocket watch from his coat, glancing surreptitiously at the tiny numerals. “One more hour,” he declares.
So that’s how it’s going to be. Fine; I can pretend nothing happened. I’m calm. At peace, even. The apex of my thighs definitely isn’t uncomfortably damp. I clear my throat. “Does your friend know we’re coming to see him?”
“No.”
That bodes well. I’m silent, hoping Slade will elaborate, but of course he doesn’t. His focus slides back to the shadowy world outside. I realize I’m instinctively waiting for him to blink, but he doesn’t do that either.
I try again. “Isn’t it polite to let someone know you’re planning to show up at their home?”
“I rarely concern myself with politeness.”
“What makes you think he’ll be willing to help us, then?”
Slade doesn’t look at me as he responds. “Talin, would you do something for me?”
“That depends what it is.”
“Be quiet.”
Were it anyone else, I might be impressed by the audacity. “Frustrated, are we?”
His reply is casual. “Not at all.”
But as he stows away the pocket watch, I can’t help noticing that his knuckles are white and bloodless around the golden chain.