Hard Compromise (Compromise Me)

by Samanthe Beck

  She wiggled, but the wall prevented her from getting far. “Nobody—”

  His delving tongue dissolved her reply into an inarticulate plea.

  Some misplaced sense of propriety, or the intensity of the sensations, forced her onto her toes. He simply tightened the trap, and kept at her—using his tongue, teeth, and fingers to exploit every unprotected part of her. One of her hands slapped the plaster, the other reached back and tangled in his hair.

  “It hurts. I have to come so bad it hurts.”

  The pain definitely cut both ways, but he drew it out a little longer. “Who’d you imagine getting you out of your panties tonight?”

  “I didn’t…I can’t think.” Her fingers tightened in his hair. Pulling. Demanding. “I need.”

  Growling his frustration, he scraped his jaw across her satiny ass. “Tell me” He circled his thumb as he pushed in deeper, searching out the hidden place that couldn’t withstand direct contact.

  Her whole body stiffened when he hit it. She froze there for a suspended heartbeat, and then pounded the wall with her fist as the first spasm shook her. The next unlocked her voice, and words came forth with the same rushing honesty as her orgasm. “You, Booker. You. God help me, I thought of you.”

  Chapter Three

  Textured plaster pressed into Laurie’s forehead, but all she could do was cling to the wall and gasp lungful after lungful of air while shockwaves raced through her system. What the hell had just happened to her?

  Ethan Booker just happened to you. He branded your ass, and then handed you the most cataclysmic orgasm of your life. Oh, and then he made you admit you’d envisioned him doing it.

  The frightening thing was she hadn’t even realized the truth until the words were out, echoing in her ears. How had he known that while she’d dressed for this evening, deep in some forbidden part of her mind, she’d banked on those words he’d spoken ten years ago? She’d secretly fantasized about him being the one to strip off her carefully planned party clothes and show her a Happy New Year.

  He’s going do it again, if you don’t watch yourself.

  Good lord, he was. Even now, while she struggled to reclaim control of herself, his big hand lingered between her legs, cupping her in his wide, capable palm. Petting her gently. Painfully gentle. She’d had no idea such a sensation existed, until now, and she’d had no idea she was so susceptible to it. Worse, his mouth cruised along her hip, and she was pretty sure his lips formed a smile. A smug smile.

  That got her moving. She pushed off the wall. He pushed her right back against it, and held her there, hands at her waist, while he took his time running his tongue up her spine, slowly rising to his feet as he worked his way from the small of her back to the nape of her neck. His hand glided down her stomach, and reasserted his claim to the domain between her thighs. She braced for his penetrating touch, but he didn’t intrude past her body’s damp, swollen barriers. He simply rested there, heavy, proprietary, and strangely…protective. Almost comforting. As if he understood at this moment her orgasm-flushed center needed the refuge.

  Protective? Comforting? Holy hell, Peterson, what is wrong with you?

  Nothing a little distance wouldn’t solve, but just as she reformed her intention to shake him off, he bit her earlobe, sending a warning shiver directly to parts of her still stinging from similar treatment. “Be still. We’re not done.”

  Maybe not, but she turned her head away, trying not to make it too easy for him.

  “Unless…” He trailed off and buried his face in her hair. His chest expanded against her shoulder blades as he inhaled, and the shivers threatened again at the notion of him breathing her in like oxygen.

  “Unless what?” Pride had her attempting to straighten.

  “Unless you can’t handle anymore?”

  He moved closer. Beneath the chafe of his pants she felt a whole lot “more,” and new heat flooded to where he cupped her. Would he detect it? Would he realize he exerted more control over her body with one simple shift of his hips than she did with all the warning lights flashing in her brain? The thought sent a separate wave of heat to her face.

  She fell back on old defenses. Sarcasm. Swagger. “Maybe I’m just not particularly interested in what else you’ve got?”

  The insinuation spurred his fingers into action. He administered one long, leisurely stroke and her body betrayed her with wet sounds. His laugh turned her cheeks fiery. “Liar,” he scolded.

  A pathetic moan slid past her throat, and his hand immediately stilled. “But I can’t help wondering if you’ve hit your limit, because these gorgeous legs of yours are trembling.”

  Okay, this bit of cockiness she could rectify right now. “My legs are trembling because these shoes are killing my feet.”

  “Well, now I feel guilty, since you wore them for me.”

  Shit. She was never going to live that down. Before she could think up a suitably biting reply, he continued, “If you ask nicely, I’ll give you some relief.”

  “This may come as a shock to you, but I know how to take off my shoes all by myself.”

  “The shoes stay on. I have plans for them. The relief I have in mind involves getting you off your feet. Would you be more comfortable on your knees, or your back? Maybe you prefer a position where you can bury your face in a pillow to keep the entire complex from hearing how relieved you are.”

  His words made her legs tremble all the more, because she had a sneaking suspicion his version of “relief” might feel a lot like torture. Very addictive torture. Time to dole out a little of her own, before she found herself on the receiving end of another crippling orgasm. She pushed her hips back, and rubbed them over the front of his trousers, side to side, and then up, up…sweet Jesus…up, and down. A low growl rumbled up from his chest, and then his hands flew to her waist, fingers digging into her skin. But he didn’t stop her.

  “Seems like you’re in need of some relief, too, Booker. Why don’t we move this to the sofa, and I can take care of both our needs?”

  With the suddenness of a lightning strike, he spun her around, and fused his mouth to hers. His quick hands got a tight grip on her ass. Strong arms flexed, and the next thing she knew their heads were level, her breasts crushed against cashmere covered granite, and her toes dangled a foot off the ground. Strategies flew out of her head like startled birds, leaving only instincts. She twined her arms around his head. The world spun as he swung away from the wall, and she wrapped her legs around his waist to keep their lower bodies tight. The move paid off, because every step he took jostled her unguarded sex against the jutting curve of his cock.

  How much did it cost to dry-clean a pair of men’s dress pants? Many more steps and one of them seemed likely to find out. So be it. She wiggled and shifted and did everything in her power to maximize the haphazard caress.

  A compass in her head warned her they weren’t on the right trajectory to end up at her sofa, but she was too busy being devoured by his fast, hungry mouth to offer directions. Second by second, that mouth grew less controlled. Less accurate. Teeth scraped flesh. His five o’clock shadow scratched across the delicate, kiss-dampened skin around her lips, and made every other patch of damp, delicate skin on her body tingle.

  He finally stopped, and let her slide down his body. Even with her eyes closed, she could tell they no longer stood in any of the well-lit areas of her apartment, which meant only one thing. He’d opted for the bedroom. Not that big a deal, normally, but tonight her heart stuttered at the prospect.

  Her bedroom contained soft, whimsical flourishes she’d lacked growing up. Booker’s trained eyes wouldn’t miss the hand-gathered sand dollar collection on her windowsill, or the framed watercolor of Nido Beach at sunrise she’d painted in seventh grade, and definitely not the impractically large, unapologetically romantic iron bed taking up the better part of the room. Granted, she’d just allowed the man unrestricted access to her body, but revealing her romantic, impractical side to him suddenly seemed too in
timate.

  She opened her eyes and drew back to suggest someplace else. Anywhere. The bathroom, the kitchen, her postage-stamp-sized patio—but just as she started to speak, Booker reached an arm behind his head and yanked his sweater off in one smooth, muscle-rippling move.

  The power of speech fled. All she could do was stand and behold. Light from the hallway outlined serve-and-protect shoulders. The slant of sturdy collarbones drew her eye to the chiseled line bisecting his muscled chest. Her gaze slid down, bouncing over each gently rounded slope of his abs, and lingering in every shadowy slash between. Wedges of muscle carved in at his hips and disappeared under the band of white visible above the waist of his undone pants.

  Her attention homed in on the ridge…the proud, thick ridge rising from his half-opened fly, and stretching the flap of his boxer briefs. Hello, sheriff.

  Hair-trigger muscles inside her clenched, even as every self-preserving instinct warned her to back away. Claim an urgent commitment first thing in the morning and get him out the door, pronto, because the stakes tonight suddenly seemed much higher than she could afford. But no amount of willpower could keep her hands from following the path her eyes had traveled.

  By the time her fingers snagged in the waistband of his underwear, her hormones had conducted crisis-level negotiations with her self-preserving instincts, and struck a bargain. One teensy ground rule she’d keep to herself. Namely, she could ride him like a wave, until they both crashed and broke, but she would absolutely, positively not let him into her bed. No, sir. When she crawled under the covers at night, she didn’t need memories of Booker in there with her.

  Luckily, the room offered other options, and a myriad of erotic possibilities flashed through her mind. Pinned between the plaster and Booker’s body, digging her heels into his calves as he nailed her to the wall? Bent over her sturdy, antiqued white dresser, watching him in the mirror and holding on for dear life while he rocked her up onto her toes with every thrust? Or maybe…her attention slid to the far corner of her room…something new? She hooked her finger into his belt loop and tugged him over to the chaise she’d splurged on for Christmas because she couldn’t resist its sensuous lines.

  “Fuck, that’s sexy.”

  “I know.” She stroked the white velvet covering the rolled arm of the chaise—another nod to the impractical and romantic. Nothing to do at this point but own it. “A little Christmas gift from me, to me.”

  He hauled her against him, and snuggled her there in the harbor of big body. “I meant you, walking across the room wearing nothing but high heels, soft light, and the whisker burn I left on your ass.”

  His words flowed into her ear, and tickled down her spine, finding weak points along the way. What else should she call those parts of her that went soft in response to an unexpected compliment?

  This is not a seduction, for Christ’s sake, it’s a hookup—a long overdue one, born out of simple but persistent physical attraction.

  Right, and the sooner she focused on the physical, the easier it would be to remember what tonight was all about. She wriggled out of his grasp, and sat on the chaise.

  The velvet felt cool against her backside, and she realized he was right. His teeth or his scratchy jaw had left her a little tender. The slight sting shimmered along receptors in her skin, transmitting the sensation directly to her clit. Or maybe the reaction was some primitive response to the notion that Booker had left his mark on her. Would being with him tonight leave other marks? Marks invisible to the eye, but potentially more permanent?

  A stain on your soul…

  Her soul had stood up to worse than Ethan Booker. She leaned in and pressed a kiss to the pale strip of skin just above his boxer briefs.

  “Wait,” he said, and started to take a step away.

  Ah, sweet revenge. She reclaimed his belt loops and stopped his retreat. “Close your eyes, say a prayer—whatever you need to do—but don’t you dare hold anything back from me.”

  The corner of his mouth quirked. Deliberately, he took the step back and toed off one shoe. Then the other. “Try to have a little patience, Jailbait. There’s a two hundred pound man attached to that cock you’ve got your eye on, and I sincerely doubt you want me tangled in my pants.”

  Damn.

  He pulled his belt off. The friction of the strap sliding over her knuckles heated her skin. Then he rolled the length, and gave it a toss. It landed on her bed with a small slap. The sound, combined with the sight of stark, masculine accessory made her insides quiver. Silence hung in the room, and she belatedly realized he waited for her to let go of him. When she did, he dipped his head and shucked his pants and underwear off, but not before she saw the flash of his teeth.

  All right, another point to him. But starting now, the tables would turn. He wasn’t the only one with skills. She knew a few tricks. Once she busted out the practiced and perfected techniques that never failed to get a standing O, she’d have him begging for merc…

  Mercy. Nature had been generous with Ethan Booker. She couldn’t help staring as he straightened, then scooting to the edge of the seat when he wrapped his hand around the thickest part of his shaft and dragged his fist toward the head, pulling hard enough to lift his balls. “Think you can handle me, Lauralie?”

  Yes…no. Maybe. While her hormones, her self-preserving instincts, and some part of her she refused to identify offered conflicting answers, the never-back-down rebel inside her stood up, and grabbed the mic. “What you need to ask yourself, Booker, is how much you can handle.”

  To her surprise, he laughed. She reached for him, but he caught her mid-grab, and wove their fingers together. “At this moment? Not much.” He tipped her chin with his other hand, and traced her upper lip with his thumb. “How badly do you need to do this right now?”

  Badly, came the humbling response. She usually considered this a treat offered up for the benefit of her partner, with her takeaway being the satisfaction of wielding the power. But not tonight. Tonight she wanted this for her own selfish reasons—to stretch her lips around him, flatten her tongue against his hard, vein-ribbed shaft, and taste him from base to tip.

  He manhandled his cock until the head pointed her way. Her tongue crept to the front of her mouth. She licked her lips, parted them, and started to close the distance between them.

  “Uh-uh. Don’t move. Wait for it.”

  The unexpected instructions actually made her pause for a moment. “I’m not a patient woman.”

  He pulled his length out of her reach. “Do we need to skip this after all?”

  The bastard. She counted to ten, and then shook her head. “No.”

  “Good. I’m impatient, too. But tonight’s been years in the making, and we’re going to do it right”—he gave his cock another stroke, as if he knew watching him handle himself frustrated and aroused her at the same time—“which means I can’t let you finish me off with your talented mouth. Cooperate, Lauralie, so I can take care of you. You won’t be sorry.”

  Oh, she might be sorry. Something told her she might be very sorry in a way completely unrelated to sex if she let Booker take care of her, but denying herself now was out of the question. She tucked her hands under her legs, licked her lips, and opened her mouth.

  He ran his thumb along the corner of her jaw. “Wider.”

  An inner voice protested again. The idea of sitting before him, naked and waiting, with her mouth open and exposed to his watchful gaze felt unreasonably vulnerable. But refusing would only reveal the vulnerability to him. She’d walked into this game of chicken with her eyes open and she refused to blink first. Which left only one option.

  She complied.

  As if he understood what it cost her, he ran his fingers through her hair, brushing it back from her face. “Good girl. I wish you could see what you look like right now, sitting on that virginal white couch, naked and panting, with your lips wet, and your mouth open, ready to receive me. It’s a miracle I don’t come where I stand.”

&nb
sp; To distract herself from the heat creeping up her chest, she gripped the cushion and readied for a thrust. Instead, he traced her lips, gliding the smooth, broad head over them. Glossing them.

  “Jesus, you have the softest lips. I could spend hours on them.”

  No, he couldn’t, because she’d die. A hungry sound escaped her throat. She dipped her chin and bobbed for him.

  Either he failed to anticipate the move, or he took pity on her, but however it happened, she finally had him in her mouth. He slid one hand into her hair, and cupped the other under her chin, constraining her in an unnervingly tender hold. His dark eyes locked on hers for a long moment—long enough for her to struggle with an urge to close hers in case he could see into every corner of her mind—before they dropped to where she held him in her mouth. Pressure mounted in her chest. She dug her fingers into the cushion to ground herself, because a lightheaded sensation rushed her. What the hell had she gotten herself into?

  As if he sensed her rising panic, he pushed deeper. The breath she was holding gusted out through her nose. Reflexes kicked in, and she inhaled a mix of oxygen and testosterone.

  The quick drag of air steadied her. Confidence returned. You know exactly what you’ve gotten yourself into. Leaning forward, she offered him her whole mouth. Her throat. Everything he could possibly want. The tip of her tongue found a vein along the underside of his shaft and traced the raised path as far as she could, then she sealed her lips tight around his length as she slowly retreated, using enough suction to guarantee he’d feel the pull for days. Thanks to the angle he forced on himself, she could look up and watch his eyes roll back in his head.

  So much for his big plans. Another few seconds, and she’d not just finish him off, she’d level him. A minute after that, he’d be tugging his clothes on and making a beeline out her door.

  She brushed aside an unfamiliar emptiness at the thought, and got to work, taking him as deep as she could, gorging on his scent, his taste, the leashed power of his thrusts. Fingers dug into her hair. The hand at her throat tightened. She recognized the signs. He was about to become a slave to instinct, and she was about to become a means to an end. Sure enough, he pumped his hips faster. Just as she prepared for a hot bath at the back of her throat, he did something unprecedented. He dragged his cock out, and hauled her to her feet. “Enough. On the bed. Now.”