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She looks up at me again, holding my gaze, looking for something inside me. Then she slides off the bed, jumps to her feet, and rushes to me.
She kisses me softly, tenderly.
“Thanks, River. Really.” She runs her thumb over my chin. “I wouldn’t have tried this without you.”
The compliment undoes me. I’m teaching Deanna Huntington something. Maybe I won’t win our wager. Maybe these aren’t the lessons in love I imagined, but this is just as pure and bright and magical.
She shifts into the bed.
I grab jeans and boxers and slip into the bathroom to prepare.
I’m going to dominate the most powerful woman in the world.
What a task.
What a thrill.
Chapter Thirty-Two
River
Despite my excitement, or because of it, nerves threaten to overwhelm me as I prep in the bathroom. I wash my hands and face. I dry enough to dress in boxers and jeans. I run through visions in my head. Not plans—I don’t plan the way she does—but possibilities.
Deanna, spread over those white sheets on her back, groaning as I hold her arms over her head.
Deanna, on her stomach, arms bound behind her back, hips bucking as she reaches for me.
Deanna, groaning with a perfect mix of bliss and agony as I lick her to orgasm again and again.
There’s no way I can last through all those scenarios. I need to move fast but steadily. I need to give her what she wants.
And she wants to let go. I want her to let go.
It’s that simple.
I take another deep breath and I step out of the bathroom.
The main room is the same. White walls, pastel paintings, sheer curtains, the hum of air conditioning.
And Deanna Huntington, sitting on the white sheets in a sheer black bra and panty set.
Fuck, she looks good in black mesh. Edgy and sexy and completely where she belongs.
“Did you wear that for me?” I let my voice drop to something low and seductive.
She looks up at me, the perfect mix of defiance and need in her green eyes. “No. For me.”
That’s exactly right. That’s what I love about her. She’s not the vision of an ideal woman, the one I saw in my head. She wears sheer black mesh for her. She asks for what she wants, and when she doesn’t get it, she finds a way to take it.
Desire courses through my body. I’m humming, I’m buzzing, I’m every metaphor in the history of the world and I’m none of them. Because this isn’t art. This is real. The two of us together, in messy, beautiful reality.
I want all the messy, imperfect parts of her.
“Do you wear it to work?” I take another step toward the bed.
“No.”
“On dates?”
