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His eyes drop to my mouth when I flick my tongue out and over my lips. Then they darken and his jaw ticks at the same time that he stabs his fork into his dinner. Even his biceps flex, although I’m pretty sure that was a conscious movement. His eyes are still fixed on my mouth as I lift a forkful of pasta to it and close my lips around the food.
I slowly draw the fork out of my mouth. I know exactly what he’s thinking. He’s thinking that he wishes the fork were his cock.
He’s thinking about how I left him hanging not six hours ago in the middle of the park right before a shoot.
He’s thinking about his promise of making me pay for it.
And I’m thinking that he should hurry the hell up about it.
“Something wrong, honey?” I ask sweetly.
“That depends on what underwear you’re wearing,” he answers without batting an eyelid.
Now I’m fucked. “Red and black that don’t match.”
“Get changed. Now.”
“I’m eating dinner.”
“I don’t care. Get. Changed.”
I stand and walk around the table, pausing next to him. “Into what? A ball gown?”
His fingers close around my wrist and he tugs me into him. “Are you taking the piss, Liv?”
“You’ll have to explain your foreign English to me.”
He stands, his body emanating a heat I can feel everywhere. “Are you sassing me, Liv?”
“Ohhh,” I coo, stepping forward. I run a fingertip down his chest to the top of his pants. “Yes. I am. What are you going to do about it?”
His hand sharply connects with my ass. “You’re awfully cocky for someone about to be fucked so hard you’ll feel my cock inside you for a week.”
“And you’re awfully cocky for someone who has yet to get your cock inside me.” I skip backward out of his hold with a challenge in my eyes.
I know it’s there. I can feel it—it’s in my words and the way my hips sway as I leave the room. If it’s in every step, it’s in my eyes, too.
I run into my room and strip off my clothes. I open the drawer and pull out the pale-pink set—his favorite. My favorite.
The door opens before I can put it on and Tyler snatches it from my hands. He stands between me and the drawer, his breathing heavy and heated, and runs his eyes over me. They peruse my body, leaving no part untouched by his hot gaze.
Goose bumps coat my skin in the wake of his stare and heat sizzles across them. I shiver when his eyes hover at my bare, exposed pussy.
He trails his fingers from my shoulders, over my breasts, down my stomach, and finally to my hips. He grabs me quickly and pushes me back on the bed. Instead of screaming, I gasp, and he covers my body with his.
My legs, my hips, my breasts—he’s over them all, flat against me, his fingers in my hair and his mouth working mine.
“Fuck the underwear,” he mumbles, running his hands down my sides. They skim over my skin and set off a whole new round of charges.
His skin is like an electric current across mine, ignited only when we touch, sparking sensations in places I didn’t know I could feel. My fingertips are humming as they travel up his back, and there’s a level of material between us.
Material I want gone.
Material I’m smart enough not to ask about.
I know who’s in control here. I know who’s holding the strings and who’s tugging them. It isn’t me—it never is. It’s always him, playing and yanking and teasing.
His mouth travels down my neck to my breast and he takes one nipple in my mouth. He pinches my breast from beneath, his thumb massaging the soft flesh, and he hums as he flicks his tongue over the hardened and extra-sensitive nipple.
