I slide my finger onto the trigger and prepare to fire over the top of the table, but a movement to my left distracts me. Assuming it’s Jack, I fire a string of bullets, only to realize I’m shooting at a towel. With a gasp, I spin around, but it’s too late. He’s tricked me—and he’s right behind me with a smug smile on his handsome face.
Two bullets catch me in the dead center of the chest, making it six to three, but I refuse to say die even though I’m almost out of bullets, attempting to scramble to my feet…
And I smack my head on the edge of the table.
But sensing an advantage, I immediately play it up, cradling my forehead and sniffling pitifully, like I’m on the verge of tears. “Ouch.”
Jack drops his gun. “Oh my God, Maisy.” He kneels down beside me, pulling me onto his lap, tipping my chin up. “Are you hurt? Should I call someone? Are you bleeding?”
Upon seeing his gray complexion and panicked blue eyes, I immediately feel terrible for duping him. But not terrible enough to stop me from picking up my gun and firing my remaining four bullets into his shoulder. “I win.”
A touch of panic fades. “You’re not hurt?”
Unable to subdue my triumphant smile, I shake my head.
A rush of relief blows over his features and a disbelieving laugh puffs out of his mouth. “That was cold, Whitaker.”
We’re both breathing fast from exertion. “Maybe you’re teaching me how to play dirty.”
His erection presses up against my bottom, that masculine hand slipping my dress higher on my thighs, his knuckle teasing me beneath my belly button. “I’m going to teach you a lot of dirty things while you’re here.”
A tingle tickles into my pelvis and carries low, like fingertips stroking over my private flesh. “That’s going to be tough when I’m not sleeping in your room,” I whisper, trembling.
In a split second, I’m flat on my back, Jack looming above me. “I don’t need a fucking room. I’ll take you outside and pound you against my front door while the mail is being delivered, won’t I?” The imagery of that makes me moan, my nipples beading painfully. I’m too momentarily stunned to fight and he presses that advantage, his hips wedging between my thighs, fingers tucking beneath my neckline—and ripping my dress straight down the middle, sending buttons into a scatter all over the floor. “Can I come yet, baby?” He unfastens his belt and tosses it aside. “Yes or no.”
My birth control should be effective now. And I would sell my soul to feel that wicked lick of liquid fire inside me again…which is exactly why I can’t allow it. He’s consuming me, drawing me in physically and mentally, making me fall for him before I’ve accomplished my goal of knowing him. After all, he’s still the man who broke his first promise to me. Is controlling me with money, like a carrot on the end of a stick. He gets everything he wants, but I can’t make it so easy to have me, too. Not until he gives up some ground. “No. You can’t.”
With a growl of frustration, he rips down his zipper.
Takes out his hard, heavy shaft and strokes it, root to tip, his breath stuttering out.
“Can I make you come?”
“Yes,” I manage, because there’s no other answer. Lust is clawing at me, turning the walls of my womanhood to little more than a greedy pulse. Need need need. I’ve relived him being inside me so many times since Friday, without actually experiencing that addictive fullness, that I’m desperate for it now.
And he doesn’t make me wait.
Jack pulls down my panties, spits on my sex and drives himself to the hilt.
A scream blares from my throat, followed by the raunchy sound of flesh slapping. Fast, fast. No gentleness. No buildup. It’s before and after. Incomplete to complete. The moments between the last time Jack was inside me and now were nothing more than that. Moments. Killing time. This is all there is. His long, thick manhood slamming deep and reminding me he doesn’t just dole out my money, he decides how and when my pleasure is received, too. It’s true. Whether I like it or not.
His teeth dig into my neck. “You like being fucked, little girl?”
“Good.” He angles deep, scooping his thickness into me with powerful rolls of his hips. “With a pussy like this, you better get used to it.”
His coarse manner of speaking shouldn’t turn me on like this. It shouldn’t riddle me with lust when he calls me little girl. Or refers to my womanhood like it’s driven him crazy. Or when his words turn me into a shameful temptation that can’t be resisted. As if it’s my fault he has to unzip his pants and blow off steam. But it does make me hot. It makes me wild. To be so coveted that he has to rip off my dress and take me on the floor.