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Her influence.
“What? We can have basic boring missionary sex and move on from all this. It’s not like we’re some low-level life-form. See?” she said, shoving her hand in his face and moving her thumb up and down. “Opposable thumbs.”
His hand circled around her wrist and held it immobile, all the blood in his body making the fateful trek toward his cock that was like a heat-seeking missile when within a fifty-mile radius of this smart-mouthed woman.
“Come on,” she said, writhing against him. “Let’s make one another feel good for once.”
So tempting.
He was sick of being ever-pragmatic, fighting against a girl—now woman—infamous for throwing caution to the wind, living life on the edge, and wholly unaware of being the one female he could never resist.
She continued her line of reasoning, “I know I owe you answers.” Jesus her hips were moving against his like she was attempting to rut through his shorts. She was fucking killing him. “I… but… for right now, can you just make me feel good? Make me… forget?”
As if he were doing her a favor.
He stared her down as her soft torso leaned into his hard one, her hand still fondling his hair and the other in his viselike grip between them.
Apparently, there was nothing sexier than a begging Birdie.
Not a sassy Birdie. And not a subtly denigrating one, but on her knees begging him. Begging for him.
Fuck, he was such an asshole.
She continued with the complete evisceration of his custom-manufactured, Bird-resistant walls. “I know I’m… difficult. Hardly worth all the drama. But I’m begging you, just this once, do something for me. Just me. No one else. Would you please make me forget? It can be just sex,” she rushed, reading his darkened expression for something other than what it was. “I promise. There’ll be no emotional complications. I won’t ask for anything more from you. I’ve taken enough as it is. Just… can you be someone who I can… sink into? Someone I can drown in? For right now?”
She had no clue of her worth.
No clue how much she had meant to him. At one time. In the past.
But he had to remember, he wouldn’t survive becoming invested again, on any level. Endowed with the smell of her skin and the softness of her breath on his body, only for her to leave him again.
She was always leaving, like a movie poster where the female villain sauntered away from the hellfire and carnage she left in a billowing plume behind her.
Despite that, he couldn’t deny the life-long desire of plowing into Birdie Wellborn, with all his faculties and completely sober. How many nights had he sat alone in his bed, his back against the headboard, and his head in his hands, trying to remember that night? What it must have been like to finally have her in his arms, to be inside of her tight little body? How could he have loved her so much and not have a single memory of making love to her?
Resentment returned, tangled with something else he didn’t want to define. Refused to acknowledge.
Not to mention his dick was so fucking hard he could jackhammer into the concrete floor without blinking an eye or losing his breath.
He pushed her aside and walked to the door. He heard her intake of breath at his back, as if she feared he was going to walk out and deny her request.
Instead, he turned the lock. He was going to finally play out that night, but instead of fantasizing about making love to her, he was going to take her, take something back from her. If that gave her solace, then so be it.
When he turned, she had her fingers steepled to her mouth, almost as if praying. Streaks of tears drying on her cheeks and looking absolutely fuckable beyond belief.
His chest squeezed in a way he found unsettling, and he fought against it.
Pulling the old office chair from behind him, he sat and she began to walk toward him with an eagerness that made his dick twitch.
As she raised her arms to his shoulders, he grabbed her by the wrists to stop her.
Missionary style and robotic, his ass.
“Turn around.”
Her eyebrows came together as she bit her lip but did what she was told.
A first.
