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“Natalie?” Jack called through the door. “I’m here, darlin’. If you need—”
“Where are your hands?” she demanded.
She heard a chuckle followed by movement on the other side of the door. The wooden surface at her back pushed against her. No, she wasn’t letting him in—
“I’m right here,” he said, and she realized he wasn’t coming inside. He was leaning against the door. His position probably mirrored hers, his back to the door, looking out into the dark room. “With my hand around my dick, thinking about the sexy bartender from the story, her legs spread wide on the table.”
Oh God, yes.
She could picture his hard, thick length, his hand gliding up over the tip, drawing back down. He would know how fast to move his hand as the story played out in his imagination.
“Take off your pants,” he ordered. “Do it, Natalie.”
She heard the hard edge to his voice. But she didn’t obey commands. She set the rules. No one told her what to do.
“Please,” he added.
That one word was all she needed. He wasn’t taking control from her. It was still her choice. It was still up to her to decide where they were headed. And she knew what she wanted.
She hooked her thumbs in the waistband of her sweatpants, drawing them down and taking her plain black underwear with them. She kicked them aside and waited.
And nothing. She could hear him breathing through the door. Maybe he was too far lost in the f
antasy, seeking release. And she should do the same, closing her eyes and picturing Channing Tatum or some other ripped movie star at her mercy. She didn’t need to wait for his instructions.
“Spread your legs,” he commanded.
The sound of his voice, those words… She mentally slammed the door on the beautiful movie star she didn’t want or need right now. She drew her knees up, planted her feet on the bathroom floor, and heal-toed them further and further apart.
“Are you wet?” he asked.
“Yes,” she gasped, moving her hand between her splayed limbs, feeling the slick, very real reminder of how her body responded to Mr. Prince Charming. And maybe here, alone in the motel bathroom, with the locked door between them, she could give in to the need, to the fantasy. “Do you still have your shorts on?” she asked.
“No,” he growled. “I’m sitting out here bare-ass naked. And I swear, I’m going to come pretty damn soon. But I want you with me. So tell me, what do you need to get there?”
“Talk to me,” she said, running her hand over her belly and between her legs. Her finger circled her clit, teasing and taunting her closer and closer. But she didn’t want to go there alone. “What would you do if I let you in?”
“I’d watch,” he said.
The door shifted at her back. Was he trying to break in? She’d turned the lock. But he was a SEAL. The cheap motel bolt wouldn’t keep him out.
“Jack?” she whispered, slipping two fingers inside. It wasn’t enough to fill her, to take her over the edge. She swirled her thumb over her clit, moving in earnest, racing toward the end. “Tell me more.”
“I’d fall to my knees between your legs and watch your fingers move.” The door shifted again. He was lifting his hips, she realized, thrusting his cock into his own hand. And oh God, that image—
“Jack!” She’d never been closer to begging, and this man wasn’t even in the room with her. He wasn’t touching her. And dammit, he wasn’t inside her.
“I’d memorize every touch, learning what made you wet and what drove you wild,” he said. “Because next time, it will be my fingers inside you. Darlin’, I’ll tie those hardworking hands of yours behind your back, and I swear you will beg—”
“I never beg,” she shot back. But the image of her hands tied, her body at his mercy…
Five more seconds and she would be lost. Mind, body, and soul dominated by pleasure.
“Come now,” she demanded, fighting for control—of him, of the imaginary scene, of herself.
“Not without you,” he growled.
“I’m—” She flicked her clit one last time, closing her eyes, picturing that girl tied up on the bathroom floor, at his mercy, under his control. It wasn’t her. It couldn’t be her.
