by Anne Marsh
“You like it when I tell you what to do in bed.”
She rolls her eyes. “That’s the oldest line in the book. It doesn’t work.”
The oldest line was want a bite of my apple? And it definitely worked. I lean over her. “You. Like. It.”
She’s not the same woman who chattered my ear off on the way to the pitch session, or even the same woman I held in my arms last night. That Lola was playful, geeky, thoughtful. She was also interested in me, in who I was and what I thought. This Lola has dismissed me as a subordinate, as someone who doesn’t matter.
I see red. Anger isn’t productive, but right now I don’t care. “Let’s go.”
I set a hand at the small of her back. She told me once that the gesture is sexist and outdated—and still makes her panties wet. She shook her head while she confessed, as if she couldn’t believe herself, so my touching her like this will be fuel on the fire.
“I didn’t need your help in there.” She just won’t let it go.
“You got it anyhow. And you really should work on your manners and say fucking thank you because I pulled your ass out of the fire in there, baby.”
We’re yelling at each other on the sidewalk. People are looking. The only reason security hasn’t interfered is because we’re both wearing suits.
“Fuck you,” she says sweetly and whirls to march up Market Street.
I have no idea what her plan is, but she doesn’t walk away from me. I pull her to me and I angry-kiss her. When we pull apart, we’re both panting, but I still have a point to make.
“Say please and I’ll fuck you.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Dev
LOLA GLARES AT ME, her breath tearing from her in harsh, panting gasps. “Are you insane?”
Yes, I’m crazy for you.
“Tell me to fuck you again, and I’ll do it.”
The hate coursing through me is real, as is the rage. There might be pain and some other emotions in there, too, but I’m ignoring those. My dick tents the front of my dress pants.
“Have you ever fantasized about a hate fuck?” I step into her, crowding her with my body. She won’t back down, so now we’re thigh to thigh, so close we might be embracing or jammed into a crowded commuter car together. “There are no excuses for wanting it. You just do. You do because you want to mark that other person. You want to get deep inside them and make it impossible for them to ignore you or shut you down. You do because there’s nothing better than the post-fight adrenaline and taking it out on the person who caused it.”
I pause and let silence fill in the space between us. We’re standing on the busiest street in San Francisco, the lunchtime crowd pouring around us, giving us sidelong glances, muttering curses because we’re in their way, and no, we’re not moving. Not yet.
I pull out my phone and book a room in the hotel where she just pitched. Lola watches me, but it’s not as if I’m trying to hide what I’m doing. I’m only hiding who I am.
“Yes or no, Lola?”
“Fuck you,” she says quietly, her eyes on my face. Then she takes my phone and drops it into her bag.
I’m not sure how we get into the hotel. There’s nothing but white noise and red rage and this desperate, stupid, fucking need I have for this woman. As soon as we’re in the elevator, she shoves me against the mirrored wall, the decorative brass rail that runs around it stabbing into my ass, and then she throws herself at me, angry-kissing the ever-loving daylights out of me.
Her mouth is hard and hungry, her tongue chasing mine when I gasp and let her in. We kiss with our eyes open because neither of us wants to give the other that edge, to be vulnerable. Her hands cup my head, pulling my head toward hers. Her eyes have gold in them. I’m not sure if I’ve just never noticed or it’s just that we’re really, really close.
She bites my lower lip hard and yanks her head back. “I hate you.”
The sound of our harsh breathing fills the elevator.
“Fine by me.”
It’s clear what we’re doing here. I’ve booked a room so we can have angry sex and then we’ll go back to work as if nothing has happened. She’ll have my jizz dripping down her thigh, though, especially if she’s not wearing panties. Lola never wears panties and I fucking love the idea of her dripping wet with my cum. She won’t be able to ignore me then.
I curve my hands around her ass. “You wearing panties today?”
“Check.” She’s fierce, the way she won’t back down. Even when she’s scared or unsure—which I think is more often than she lets on—she just jumps in with an oh screw it. I like that about her.
Right now I’m all over her and she won’t give. She tilts her head, her gaze holding mine. The smooth bun-thing perched on top of her head isn’t looking so perfect anymore. That’s my fault for having my hands in her hair, but it makes me think about undoing her more. I drag my fingers over the soft curves that are accentuated by the well-tailored suit skirt. I find the zipper that starts at the small of her back and tug.
The sound of the zipper going down is overloud in the elevator. Lola’s panting, her breath coming in short, harsh gasps. She wants this as much as she hates me, but this isn’t a surrender. I haven’t won this battle we’re fighting. I slide my hand inside her skirt. Her skin is so soft. It always surprises me, how someone so driven can have this tender, hidden side once I get past the walls she puts between us.
She is wearing panties, but there’s not much to them—a creamy satin thong that splits the gorgeous cheeks of her ass. She was on her best behavior for the VC guys. Which is probably wise because I’ve heard enough hinky shit about what some of the less ethical guys expect in return for their checks.
I pull her harder against me until she’s riding my thigh. Her hands work the buttons of my dress shirt. She likes it when we’re both equally naked. But not yet. I have a point to make.
When she tries to pull my shirt apart, I capture her hands behind her back in one of mine. She makes a rough sound, almost feral. I cast a quick glance at the panel of floor numbers above the door. I don’t have much time. She grinds down on my thigh, and I work my free hand between us until I’m between her thighs. She freezes for a moment. Lola likes fantasies and scenes. She needs a lot of foreplay and not just with my fingers or tongue—she has to feel the mood. Today, though, she’s already soaking wet.
“Tell me yes.”
She glares at me. “Yes, damn you.”
That works for me.
“You want to tell me what you want today? Or do you want me to choose?”
I tuck her thong to the side and push a finger inside her. She’s wet and her body yields before the steady pressure of mine. I don’t touch her clit or kiss her. There’s nothing smooth about me—I just need to touch her, to somehow make myself a part of her. The sound of my finger-fucking her is almost covered up when she speaks.
“Dev,” she whispers.
I wait for more, my finger tunneling carefully in and then almost back out, but she’s silent. She just watches me as I penetrate her. The elevator whines as it starts to slow. She’s so fucking tight, slick heat squeezing me, that I’m tempted to dry-fuck against the elevator wall I know she hates because I’ve never needed to come more badly.
“Give me an answer.”
Naturally, she makes me wait another second, silently death-glares me—and then she squeezes my finger tight. “Let’s do it your way.”
Elevator dings and the doors start to slide open. Right. We’re in the hotel. It’s a public place. I have no idea what either of us is thinking, but this is dangerously crazy. Lola steps back and my finger pops out of its snug nest. I ram my other hand against the door open button.
She smirks at me as she shoves her skirt back into place. “I should leave you here.”
“But you won’t. You want this as much as I do.”
I stride out of the elevator, not waiting for her to catch up. It’s not as if I can’t see her. The hotel has these ornate, decorative mirrors every few feet, so my vision fills with Lolas. She sucks in a breath, and for a moment I almost think she’ll do it. That she’ll let the doors close and that she’ll go back downstairs and walk out of my life. That she doesn’t really want to steal an hour with me. That she doesn’t want me anymore. But then she strides out of the elevator, pulling the hair tie out of her messed-up hair so that long brown hair falls around her face in big waves. She doesn’t look so put together now.
We walk to the room like that, shoulder to shoulder. I sort of want to thread my fingers through hers but I’m also pissed off. Hell, she’s pissed off. Her chest heaves and pink flushes her cheeks. I can’t stop remembering all the other times I’ve stripped her down, how she looks out of that fuck-me suit.
As soon as we get inside the room, she’s already stepping out of her shoes. “Leave them,” I order.
She gives me a look—the one that says I’m a crazy bastard—but she does it.
I take a quick survey of the room, mostly because I’m inventorying the available surfaces to take Lola on. Writing desk, armchair, enormous king-size bed and, just in case we haven’t worked off our voyeuristic fantasies enough, a window seat beneath an enormous mullioned window overlooking a busy city street. Some hotels install one-way glass, but I have no idea what the situation is here. There’s a massive marble bathroom through a half-open door. From the bit I can see, it looks like Versailles mated with a bathroom showroom, all gold and shiny crap.
Normally Lola would explore. She loves hotel rooms with a passion others reserve for sports teams or museum exhibits. She always snaps a few quick photos and then steals all the complimentary toiletries. I’ve traveled enough for business and pleasure, however, that the novelty’s worn off and I can’t help but wonder who’s done what in that big-ass bed. Or in the elevator we just rode.
I scoop her up and toss her on the bed. Lola’s not a small girl and I love that. There’s nothing sexier than a woman who owns her curves. This time when her fingers go to the buttons on her blouse, I grab her hands with my own. She doesn’t get to take control. Not yet, not when it’s my turn.
I pull away ignoring her squawk of protest. My tie slides off easily and then I’m gift wrapping her wrists. The bow’s a little floppy—unlike me—but she can slip free anytime she wants. I’ve already got at least six inches and sixty pounds on her, so I don’t want her feeling trapped. She can push me away if she feels the need.
I finish what she started in the blouse department. I pop the remaining buttons free one at a time, working steadily down. The striped cotton falls apart, revealing a satin push-up bra that matches her thong. She doesn’t have huge tits, but they’re nicely showcased.
“Tell me to stop if you want to stop.”
She nods. “I’m okay.”
“Then I’m not asking again. Use your words if there’s a problem.”
She leans up, aiming for my mouth, and I’m almost tempted to let her catch me, but I have plans. I drop down her body, searching for the hem of her skirt. She squeals as my fingertips graze her bare thighs, her hips rolling. We both know what’s coming. I shove the skirt up.
And because she’s invited Barbarian Dev over for a playdate, I don’t bother sliding her panties down her legs. I just tear them off and shove them in the pocket of my suit jacket. I deserve a trophy for today, even if it’s just the participation prize for showing up. Plus, she keeps taking my ties, so maybe I’ll start a panty collection. Her fingers reach for me, trying to drag my head up toward hers. But I have a lesson I want to teach her, starting with who’s in charge here.
It’s not her.
I drop down, slide my hands under her ass and put my face between her thighs. I get my tongue in her slick, wet heat. She tastes deceptively sweet. I lick a path from top to bottom, fucking her with my tongue until she moans and starts moving against me. I explore each tender fold, storing away new memories of which touches make her louder and which make her whisper “More.” Lola’s not a screamer—she talks with her body. Her thighs grip my head so tightly that I’m concerned for a moment I can’t breathe. Her hands pull silently at my hair, the sting of her grip building my pleasure. When she’s with me, she feels. There’s no way she doesn’t feel us.
I look up at her, sprawled on the bed, hair messed up, clothes half on, half off. She’s my beautiful mess and she doesn’t stand a chance. I won’t lose this game we’re playing.
I know what she looks like when she’s coming now. Her whole body tightens and freezes up, as if now she’s found that one, perfect sensation, she’s holding on to it in case she loses it. Today she fights it for a second. Then she’s over the edge, falling and coming.
I shove my dress pants and boxer briefs down far enough to free myself. I’m so hard it’s painful, and even though she hasn’t even touched me yet, it gets me going that she’s let me touch her. She reaches for me, clearly intent on showing me the same sort of love I’ve shown her. Her fingers curl almost roughly around me, stroking and pulling. I think my eyes may roll back in my head.
“I need to get in you.” I almost don’t recognize my own voice. Hoarse doesn’t begin to cover it. I sound needy and desperate, two things I never do.
“Come on, baby.” She rocks against me, a teasing, mocking smile lighting up her face. Her bound hands slide down my chest, find a nipple and pinch. A groan tears out of my mouth before I can hold it in. We’re not hurting each other—much—but it’s intense.
I shove her legs wide, position myself at her opening and thrust. Fuck. Condom. She’s on the Pill, but we can’t take chances. I pull out, dick bobbing inelegantly against my stomach, and rummage in my pants pocket until I come up with my wallet and a condom. I ram it on and then I’m back, pushing into her with a pained sigh.
God, she’s amazing. There aren’t words for the sensations tearing through me. I can feel myself pushing deeper, making space inside her body for me, but she’s there, too, her body gripping me. Our hips move together, the slap of skin on skin, our bodies slick where we touch. She’s chanting something but I’m not silent, either. To my horror, I realize I’m whispering things like “You’re gorgeous,” “Please,” “I’m sorry” into her shoulder. And as I drive into her body, pull back, return, the words pile up in my head.
I’m sorry I took control of your meeting.
I’m sorry I’m such a dick.
I’m sorry you don’t know who I am.
I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.
I’m not sure who comes first or if it’s a tie, both of us reaching the finish line together, but I let myself collapse on top of her for just a moment. My hands are tangled in her hair, my face pressed against her neck. Christ, she smells good. I think I kiss her throat but it’s hard to think. She sprawls beneath me, loose and relaxed, breathing heavily. Her eyes drift closed. My whole body’s still shaking, my lungs working double-time. When I get to ten in my head, I force myself to let go and roll to the side.
“Are you okay?” Are we okay?
“Yes.” She doesn’t open her eyes as she slides her skirt back down. At some point, my tie’s come undone. It’s half under the pillow. She’s still wearing those sexy heels and her shirt’s all undone. Part of me wants her to look at me, except I’m not certain what I’d see in her eyes. Suspicion, anger—or something worse. Maybe I’d find nothing there because we’re each other’s dirty secret and nothing more.
I reach for her, intending to shift her so I can pull back the expensive duvet we’ve just had sex on, but Lola swings her legs over the side of the bed, already doing up her buttons. I wish we could lie here and sleep the afternoon away. Instead, she pulls herself together and hotfoots it into the bathroom. I’ve missed my chance.
I get dressed, mentally rerunning what just happened between us
. We fought, I fingered her in an elevator, possibly in front of security cameras, and then we had hot, rough hotel room sex. My dick stirs, jonesing for a repeat, but I ignore it. Something’s not right.
For the first time in forever, the sex feels all wrong. And it’s not that I’ve had sex with my boss or hate sex or even lunchtime quickie sex, but that I’ve done it with Lola. I’ll see her at work tomorrow. And then the day after that and the day after that until summer ends and things change. I feel a stab of something that feels like regret, but then the bathroom door opens and Lola marches out.
I want to say something, but I don’t know what. Sex I’m good at, but I don’t know how to do anything else. So I run away.
“Be right back,” I say and duck into the bathroom.
I stare into the mirror, trying to make sense of what just happened. Of how badly I’ve screwed things up between us. My hair’s on end, my face flushed, but otherwise I look the same as I always do. The bathroom, when I look, is equally untouched, all the little bottles and boxes on the countertop standing in orderly, unpillaged rows. Lola always steals those and takes them home with her. Wherever that is. I should know that—but I don’t.
My phone plays Jaws. I have a text from Lola.
No more hotel rooms.
When I go out, she’s gone.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Lola
AFTER WE HAVE angry sex, I expect that we won’t see each other for a day or two. At the very least, I expect the weekend to give us space and time to think things through. I’m not stupid. I’m fairly certain my intern is no start-up virgin. He lives in an expensive house, he knows people, and he’s far too adept at pitching. At taking control of a room. At making people sit up and pay attention to him. Maybe it’s a family network or maybe he’s had prior experience—but he hasn’t shared that with me. And yet I don’t pick that fight. I don’t insist on the truth. I don’t know why he makes me feel so many things, but he does. I also think this is more than just a crush, at least on my part.
