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The man I once stupidly thought I was in love with, the man I turned in to the cops, the man who hates me down to the ground I stand on, and the one I hate right back, turns to me. The smoldering look in his eyes melts me like I’m wax on a bonfire.
“Sweet Pollyanna. Some people don’t have manners.”
He slides his hand free and pulls me into his arms. Then he takes my mouth. The kiss is romantic, soft, passionate, and sweet edged. Almost, and strangely, innocent.
This place is so lewd and wrong, like blasphemy, and my entire being pulsates with desire and need and the dirty thrill of it.
But in our blissful little bubble, his tongue slow dances and seduces. Is there any form of this sensual art he doesn’t master?
I’m swept up in him, from his lips and tongue to the heat of the kiss.
The warmth of his palm on my cheek.
The press of his body and his half-hard cock.
I want to sink into his depths.
The kiss spins out, and I’m consumed by the shadows and lights. His free hand slides up my thigh, sweeping up my skirt.
I part my thighs for him. It’s instinctual, and I’m rewarded with the stroke of his fingers over my panties, then under the side to touch my overheated, bare, wet pussy.
He lifts his head, breathing uneven. “Oh, fuck, Pollyanna.”
Mercer pulls his hand free and takes mine.
“Let’s get out of here. I want you to myself.”
My head spins as I stumble out with him, my fingers twining with his. I’m practically levitating because that kiss…the tightness that’s so right in my chest, the pound of my pulse, the dark sugary sweetness that flows in my veins like molasses.
He’s pure magic.
This is what I always imagined it would feel like when Mercer kissed me back and told me he loved me, too.
When I was an idiotic fourteen-year-old.
I’m pretty sure there were rainbows and butterflies in my fantasies, not perverts and sex clubs, but this feeling in me is an amplification of how I felt when I looked at him back then, and?—
He drops my hand the moment the cool air of the evening touches us. His driver stands by the door to his car and Mercer pushes me in, climbing in beside me.
I can’t breathe. My lungs constrict, like they’ve been wrapped tight with heavy chains.
“What?” His deep-set eyes are mocking, cold, darkly amused. “I decided to end the show. I got what I needed. An invite to a party later.”
And just like that, I am my fourteen-year-old self, turned down by the most diabolically gorgeous man in existence and feeling like a bug on the bottom of his shoe.
Crushed.
We get back to his soulless place. My stomach is hollow as I wait, not knowing what to do next.
In a normal world, I’d probably start a fight, break up with him, and go home.
In a normal world, I wouldn’t be here in this position.
Without a word, Mercer leads me upstairs. When we get to my room, he slams me into the wall and kisses me hard.
It’s the antithesis of the kiss in the club. This is down and dirty sex. Everything inside of me—the anger and humiliation—combusts. I grab at him because he’s there, because I can.His mouth is hot and hungry, and I give into every single demand he might have. I kiss him back with the same lust and need that radiates from him.
He suddenly lifts his head, his breath coming in hard pants. “Tell me about your first time, Ivy.”
