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He takes a deep breath and his nostrils flare. He rests his face alongside mine, his fingers twining in my hair, and turns his mouth into my ear. “I dream about your hands tied to your bed with your legs open and your pussy bared to me. I dream about you on top of me, working my cock. I dream about you on your knees, your hands tied behind your back and my cock in your mouth.”
I draw in a sharp breath, my heart pounding ferociously. His words set my veins on fire, and I know it’s not just blood pumping around my body. It’s adrenaline and desire and pure, unadulterated lust.
“I dream about standing you in front of that mirror in your bedroom, flattening your hands against the wall, and fucking you from behind. I dream about smacking your arse then soothing it with my palm, and I dream about watching you watch yourself come.”
I tilt my face to his, almost desperately, and take his mouth. This kiss, for once, is entirely driven by me. As if, somewhere in my mind, I can rationalize that one kiss will take away all the bad shit, the fact that we both have addictive personalities that are worlds apart. As if one kiss can make my mind up for me.
He gets me. He wants what I do. I don’t want to be dominated—I’m not submissive enough for that—but that doesn’t mean I don’t want something a little spicier than normal sex. What Tyler just put into words, what he just described, is everything I want.
I want someone not afraid to tell me what they want, and I want someone not afraid to put those words into fucking action. I want someone real and raw who won’t treat me like I’m a fragile, little doll in bed. I want someone like Tyler.
“Are you working tomorrow night?” he asks before kissing me hard.
“No,” I whisper against him.
“Good.” He cups my jaw, and the way his thumb slides along the curve of it forces me to open my eyes. He stares into them, his gaze full of heat and anticipation and promise. “Be ready at six p.m.”
“Ready for what?”
His lips tug up on one side, his smirk sexy and dangerous, filled with promise. “Me.”
I have butterflies. They’re forceful, churning my stomach until I feel sick. I barely slept last night—my mind was full of contradictions over whether sticking this thing out with Tyler is the right thing to do. I went back and forward so many times that I’m pretty sure I have mental whiplash.
In the end, I decided that it’s too late. I’m done. I already agreed to see him tonight. I can’t back out for a second time. Besides, regardless of the numerous red flags waving like crazy in my mind, I want this.
And in the end, that’s all it comes down to.
My phone buzzes from between the sofa cushions. I dig it out and pull up the text from Tyler.
I saw Day’s pictures of you.
And?
And you should consider wearing that pink camisole tonight. And by consider, I mean put it on now.
And the stockings?
I’m not a fan of white. It’s too innocent. Tan ones. With those nude Louboutins.
I smile at the screen. It soon drops from my face when I see the time. He told me to be ready for six p.m. It’s five to six and I’m nowhere near ready. Shit.
I scramble up and run into my bedroom. I locate the camisole in my closet and pull it out, throwing it on my bed while I find some stockings. Damn, damn, damn… Where are they? I rifle through my underwear drawer, finding them tucked at the back. Flapping them to uncrease them, I drop them on the bed next to the camisole and strip off.
My buzzer goes and I run through my apartment and grab the phone. “Hello?”
“Hello, Miss Warren? I’m here to collect you on Tyler Stone’s behalf.”
He sent a car? I didn’t agree to this shit. “Um, I wasn’t aware he was sending anyone.”
“It was a last-minute decision, ma’am. Are you ready?”
I look at my mismatched underwear and lack of stockings or shoes. Or dignity, really. “Give me a few minutes.”
I hang up at his, “Of course,” and run back to my bedroom. My phone vibrates next to me on the bed as I put the right panties on.
Don’t be late, Liv.
Fuck off.
