Page 38 of Heist in Paradise

“Not even a little bit,” she lied, looking suddenly bashful.

Man, I was in deep shit.

I made an effort to extract myself, but her legs tightened around my waist. Her eyes glared pointedly at the wall behind me.

Testing the waters, I dragged her against me, a slow, torturous grind of denim on denim. Her lips parted in a silent gasp. I did it again, harder, more forceful. I made her feel every hard inch of me, the steel rod I was packing because of her.

Her lip quivered. Her hands moved behind her, seeking balance on the tabletop. Her head rolled back, eyes looking anywhere but me. I made her shameful and I decided I liked it. She was a priss and a good girl, and I was the devil she didn’t want to want.

“Stop,” she said weakly.

“Your mouth says one thing,” I said, flexing my hips, mindful of my gun lodged in the back of my waistband. “Your body says something else.”

“I don’t want you.”

“Then why can’t you look at me?”

With visible effort, she snapped her gaze to mine. Instantly, her eyes dropped to my busted lip, and she looked so fucking proud of herself that I groaned.

My hands dragged down her thighs, memorizing the lean muscle, the goddamn rapture that was my cheerleader. “Tell me to stop.”

“I did.”

“Actually mean it.” I jutted forward hard, nailing her with my throbbing erection. Already, precum was dampening my briefs, testing my shaky restraint. My hands tightened to a bruising lock.

Olivia shuddered and said in a breathy whisper: “Stop.”

Clenching my eyes shut, I stopped.

My balls were tingling. It had been way too long since I got off. I was hard up and angry, and there she was, splayed across the table like a sinful banquet.

Was she a test from God or a gift from Satan?

“This is wrong,” Olivia said, sounding unconvinced. I opened my eyes and took another serving. She was flushed and shaking, her ankles knotted at my lower back, heels digging in. Drawing me in. Her eyes were still wet, still brimming with hatred.

I expected her to chicken out.

I did not expect her to sit up and reach for my belt.

Jesus.

The clink of metal was deafening between us. Her fingers were trembling, and she was back to avoiding looking directly at me. Fine. That was fine. Hate me and fuck me—I was used to it. I’d never loved anyone, and I didn’t need the warm and fuzzies to do my part.

I was going to ruin her.

She flicked open the button of my jeans and reached in. Despite her obvious nerves, she found the mark instantly. Her fingers curled over my cock, giving it a testing tug.

“Oh,” she said. Then her thumb pressed directly in the vein beneath my head.

I jerked so hard, I nearly pulled my lower back.

“Jesus, fuck,” I groaned.

Her answering smile was small and bratty. Her touch was searching, too soft in some ways, too hard in others. Her chest heaved, and her lashes fluttered. She bit her lip in determination.

Me? I just held on.

I was too amped, already on the edge of an embarrassing oblivion. I blamed the stress of it all, the aching months since I unloaded properly, the way she pushed all my buttons. She dragged her palm over my head, gathering the slickness, and gripped me harder, twisting to the base.