Just when I’m about to order her to caress her br**sts, her hands close around them, shoving them together, her thumbs moving over her ni**les. My c**k pulses at the sight of her, all wanton and eager to please. Or maybe she doesn’t want to please me. Maybe she wants to control me with her body. It is not a pleasing thought. She’s everything I don’t like in a woman, and yet I can’t take my eyes off her.

My gaze strokes over her body, watching her take off the remainder of her clothes. I’m not even attracted to blondes, usually. Yet every inch of her—from her pale hair to her pale skin, to the pale neatly trimmed V of her body—arouses me and spawns a million fantasies of what I could to do her if I had more than one night.

In some far part of my mind, I grapple to be myself, to take charge. I need to control this woman before she does what no other woman has, and truly controls me.

As if she wants to prove she can do that and more, she drops to her knees in front of me, her hands sliding up my thighs. “I’ve thought about”—she runs her teeth over her bottom lip—“what it would be like to make you—”

I don’t let her finish the sentence. Warning bells go off in my head. She’s just a few licks from taking me where I don’t want to go. To have me at her mercy, not the other way around. I have her on her feet, backed against the desk again, before she knows what’s happened. I press her hands to the desk. “Don’t move them until I say you can move them.”

Her lips curve into a smile. “You can f**k me, Mark, but you don’t get to control me.”

“We’ll see about that,” I say, and this time I drop to my knees, sliding my fingers over the slick center of her body.

She gazes down at me. “What does that prove?” she challenges, sounding breathless.

I slip a finger inside her. “You tell me.”

Her lashes lower, then lift. “That you can make me feel good.”

I press another finger inside her and stroke her. “And does that feel good?”

“Oh, yes,” she whispers. “That feels good.”

“And if I lick you? Will that feel good?”

Her thighs tense as if in anticipation. “Why don’t you try it and see?”

I can’t get this woman to back down. I’m going to make her back down. I run my tongue over her clit several times and then suckle her. Her hands go to my head and I shove them back on the desk. “Touch me and I’ll stop.”

“I’m going to touch you, Mark. If you don’t like it, you picked the wrong girl to bury your troubles in.”

I pull my fingers from inside her.

She groans. “That was rude.”

“That was necessary,” I assure her. My hands go to her hips and I stand up, lifting her to the desk at the same time. I move to step away from her, and she wraps her arms around my neck, pressing her br**sts against my bare chest.

“Why can’t you just f**k me?” Her hand slides to the top of my pajama bottoms. “Why can’t you forget all the games just for one night?”

“There’s no such thing as just f**king,” I say, but it doesn’t stop my mouth from closing over hers, and damn if she doesn’t take that as an invitation. She all but climbs on me, wrapping her legs around me and lifting herself off the desk.

Her body molds to mine, her fingers delicately framing my face as she pants into my mouth, “You can just f**k me. Tomorrow you’re still my boss.”

I stand there holding her, telling myself she’s wrong—but suddenly, I just don’t care anymore. I don’t care about anything but being inside her. Not who has control, not how this will end badly. There’s only the need to be inside her. To “just” fuck her.

I set her back on the desk, one hand under her backside, and I’m not sure if she or I pull my shaft from the pajama bottoms, but I’m already thick between her thighs.

“Wait,” she pleads urgently, and reaches into her purse, digging frantically until she pulls out a condom.

I stiffen, but it doesn’t stop her from tearing the condom open. “My brother stuffed it in my purse a few weekends ago. He said I needed to get lucky.”

It’s all I need to hear. Already reality is sliding back into my mind, and I don’t want it there. I snatch the condom from her, roll it over me, and press inside her. The warm heat of her body surrounds me, and I sink deep into her sex, groaning as she tightens around me, taking all of me.

“Just f**k me,” she whispers against my ear.

Pulling back, I look at her, and heat expands between us, combustible, explosive. Suddenly, I’m kissing her again—or she is kissing me. I don’t know which, but I’ve lifted her from the desk and I’m holding her against me and I barely remember doing it. I pump into her and she clings to me, making sexy little sounds that make me want to f**k her even harder, deeper. I can’t get enough.

Turning her, I lay her on the bed and press her back into the mattress, lifting her legs over my shoulders. In some sane part of my mind, it’s a safer position. She’s more at a distance. She’s just a f**k. But damn it, now she’s looking at me, and every time I drive into her, I see her pleasure, and I see more. I see this woman who is more than just a f**k, and it’s making me insane. And hot. And then even hotter. I can’t thrust hard enough or get deep enough.

“Harder,” she pants. “Harder.”

I give her harder. I give her deeper.

Tags: Lisa Renee Jones Inside Out Romance
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