by Leylah Attar
“Touché.” I smiled. “You grew a pair. I like that. Now come here so I can kiss you like I’ve been dying to since the moment you walked in.”
She stood over my chair and brushed a lock of hair away from my face. I wanted to feel her fingers on my scalp, tugging my hair, like she did those few seconds before she came. I wanted to slide her dress up and taste how much she’d missed me. But I let her sit on my lap, keeping my hands to myself, letting her steer us along.
Her kiss was soft satin—smooth, flowing, gliding—gone before I could grab my fill, like the first notes of a tentative melody. I knew that song well, that buzzing, humming thing she did to my whole body. Desire flared through me as I claimed her lips in a searing kiss. I wanted to violate her with my tongue and my breath and my teeth, to brand her with all of my pent-up agony until she couldn’t walk or talk or think straight.
Her arms went around my body, pressing me closer, caressing the length of my back. I felt that old, familiar pleasure, pure and explosive, coursing through my veins, settling in the aching, throbbing heaviness of my cock. Fuck. I hadn’t compounded this feeling in my imagination. It really was this good with her. And it began from somewhere inside, a place I couldn’t see or find or barricade myself against. A place only she knew how to get to.
“You put me through hell, you know,” I said.
“We both knew it couldn’t go on forever.”
“And yet here we are, Shayda. What exactly are we doing?”
“Three days.” She tucked her face in my chest. “I haven’t thought beyond that.”
“Three days, huh?”
She shrieked as I scooped her off her feet.
“We better get going then,” I said. “You, my dear, have a lot to make up for.” I carried her out of my office.
I had three days to get her to face the truth—that she loved me, that she wouldn’t be here if it hadn’t left a gaping hole in her heart, that the only reason she wouldn’t admit it was because she was scared, because it would destroy everything safe and familiar and predictable in her world.
I didn’t care anymore. She would go through hell, but I’d be there to catch her. All I had to do was crush her defenses, lead a seventy-two hour assault on her senses and walk away with her heart in my hand. She would have no choice but to follow.
This was going to be The Summer I Possessed Shayda Hijazi.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Leylah Attar writes stories about love—shaken, stirred and served with a twist. When she's not writing, she can be found pursuing her other passions: photography, food, family and travel. Sometimes she disappears into the black hole of the internet, but can usually be enticed out with chocolate.
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