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"You sound surprised."
"It was a genuine compliment." I raise my hands. "Honest."
"Hmph." She finally turns to scan my features. "Apparently, you do mean it," she finally says.
"Of course, I mean it. I’ve always admired your work ethic, your focus, and how you’ve defused the trickiest of media situations for your clients, including how you handled yourself back there." I jab my thumb over my shoulder.
"I’m a PR consultant." She angles her head. "Though I admit, being in the eye of the camera, rather than the person pulling the strings, has a very different feel to it. It’s a good lesson to take away. I often demand a lot of my clients when they come to me with their problems. I’ve forgotten how you have to think on your feet while you are caught in the crosshairs of the paparazzi."
"You are inherently empathetic—"
"No, I’m not," she bursts out.
"—however you may try to hide it," I finish my sentence.
"Stop trying to find good traits in my character," she mumbles.
"Stop putting yourself down so much."
We stare at each, and a reluctant smile pulls at her lips again. "You’re persistent."
"I am."
The moment stretches, the space between us, once again, charged with that connection that’s shimmered between us from the moment we met. I reach over and rub the edge of her lips. She pulls away from me.
"Your lipstick; it’s smudged."
"Oh, god, and that’s how the photographers saw me?" She dips into her ever-present bag—now placed on the seat between us—and pulls out her lipstick and compact. She paints her lips with the color, and heat tightens my groin. She smacks her lips together, and fuck me, I almost come in my pants. I guess I make a sound, for she shoots me a sideways glance. "You okay?" she asks in an innocent voice.
"Don’t push it, Fire."
She tilts her head. "Should I call you Brimstone then?"
"You may call me yours."
Her features harden. "Don’t do this, Hunter."
"Now that you’ve refreshed your make-up, I think it’s time."
"Time for what?"
"This." I reach over, clamp my fingers about the nape of her neck, and pull her close.
Her gaze widens. Her chest rises and falls. She swallows, but doesn’t pull away.
"Do you want this, Zara?"
She doesn’t answer.
"Tell me you don’t want my lips on yours. Tell me you don’t want to feel my breath entwined with yours, my fingers squeezing your arse, my cock in your pussy as I pound into you and take you to the edge but don’t let you come… Not until I’ve pulled out and taken your arse; and even then, when you beg me, I won’t let you orgasm—not until you agree that you belong to me and then—"
"Then?" she whispers.
"I still won’t let you orgasm—not until I’ve shown you how explosive it is when you’re in my arms. Until I’ve convinced you how good we are together. Until I’ve taken every hole in your body and shown you the kind of pleasure you’ve never felt before. Until every part of your body belongs to me. Until your curves cry out for my ministrations, your flesh yearns for my touch, your mind can no longer resist me, and your emotions and senses are honed in on me. Not until you acknowledge you are mine."
Her pupils dilate. The gold in them lightens until they seem almost silver in color. She lowers her gaze to my lips, and the pulse at the base of her throat speeds up.
I tighten my grasp about the nape of her neck. "Tell me to stop, Zara, and I will."
