Sweet Cheeks (47 page)

“I’m gonna head upstairs. I must have left the notes for the new recipe up there.”

“Okay,” DeeDee says, her perma-grin of the day still plastered to her face. She’s a little star-struck and a lot fascinated with the exhausting press junket process that seems both monotonous and exhilarating. “I’ll just be here. Watching. Swooning. Secretly hating you every time he gives you that
I want you
look of his.”

I laugh at her comment on my way up the stairs. After a few moments, I find my notes, grab a bottle of water from the refrigerator, and when I shut its door, Hayes is standing on the other side of it.

His presence is undeniable. Eyes dark with desire and his fingers fidget at his sides like he’s itching to touch me.

His cologne pervades my nose. The sight of him ignites every single nerve in my body. My nipples harden. My thighs tense while the delta between them aches. I open my mouth to speak—to say “
hi, I missed you, screw the forty-something hours we have left”
—but the ever-so-subtle curl of the side of his mouth stops me.

Reminds me.

Prevents me.

Tells me he wants to prove me wrong.

I bite my tongue. The amused curiosity in his eyes asks me if I remember my text swore I wouldn’t speak.

A visual war wages between us while our bodies wave the white flag and want to surrender to one another. He lifts a brow. A non-verbal taunt. I respond with a lick of my bottom lip while I run a hand down the side of my neck and between my breasts.

He shifts his feet as his eyes fixate on my hand as it moves down my body. But it’s my gaze that’s caught now. On the bulge in his slacks. On the flex of his hands beside his hips. By the groan he emits deep in his throat that reflects everything I feel in this moment: want and frustration and desire and obstinacy and need.

Hope you brought your A-game, Whitley.

S
he wants to play this game? Tease me? Taunt me with an
I’m not going to talk to you either
? How I wish it were my tongue running over her body instead of her hand.

You never mess with a man on a mission, and my mission is to have her. Everything about her. Every single way possible in my life.

Right now, included.

So that little text? It was like flicking a lighter and that first spark fizzling out. I plan on flicking it again though, and this time I’ll get a goddamn wildfire. Just on my terms and in my own time.

She stares at me.

Don’t do it, Hayes.

Eyes asking.

You’ve got ten minutes max before the next interview.

Lips pursed.

Flick the lighter, Whitley.

Nipples harden beneath her shirt. Teeth biting into her bottom lip.

But she texted. She taunted.

Body all but calling to me.

Light the flame.

Begging for me.

Said she won’t talk.

Lips part. Chest heaves.

Yes, she will.

I clear my throat and know where this is going to go. How painful it’s going to be for me, but love it all the same.

Her gaze shifts down and takes in my dick, desperately hard for her. Her tongue wets her lips. She draws in a breath and then looks back up to me.

I raise an eyebrow. An
I’m not talking, are you going to
?

She lifts her chin and just for a split second I’m reminded of double-dog dares in the field behind her house and her frequent defiance to prove a point. I thought it frustrating then. But now? Now with her standing before me—curves and sex and desire and lust in one fucking perfect package—I find her defiance irresistible.

Our eyes hold. Wage a war smothered in silence but loaded with desire.

And want.

And lust.

And need.

There’s a split-second of hesitation where restraint is tested, taunted, and toyed with.

I take a step closer.
Flick the lighter
.

And then restraint’s broken.

We crash together. Lips and teeth and hands and bodies. Her moan. My groan. Her fingernails scoring. My fingertips bruising.

Both wanting more. Nowhere near getting enough.

Her back hits the wall. I can’t breathe. Can’t think. It’s her. All I want is more. All I think is
mine
.

And yet I say nothing. Neither does she. Somehow we’re still playing the game, still waging the war.

Her fingers fumble with my belt. My hand palms her tit. She sighs as my mouth claims her neck. Jesus Christ. The woman tastes like heaven. Like a fucking addiction I don’t want to quit.

My hands dip inside the waistband of her skirt. She pulls down my zipper. My fingertips touch her strip of tight curls, part her slit then slide down the line of her pussy.

Now
that
? That’s heaven. The heat of her. How wet she is. I dive right in without warning. Fingers buried to the hilt.

She cries out. Not a name. Not a word.
Just a sound
.

And then she tightens around me. Grips my fingers as she drenches my hand.

There’s no way in fucking hell I’m going to be able to stop myself. Fuck the plan. Screw the interview. Make them wait.

And when she wraps her entire hand around my cock and slides all the way down, I freeze. With my fingers still buried in her pussy, and her heat against my hand, I’m a fucking goner.

She works her hand back up, does a little twisting motion over my head, and assaults the nerves there in the best fucking way possible.

I close my eyes. Accept the pleasure. Groan in ecstasy.

And then I hear her chuckle. Know she’s playing me at my game but fuck if I’m not enjoying how she just took the upper hand.
What can I say? This woman has her hand wrapped around my cock
. It’s been eight days since I’ve been inside her.

Eight.

Whole.

Days.

Fuck.

I grit my teeth in restraint. Hold back—the
Fucking hell, Saylor
, I want to groan out, and try to process thoughts that she’s slowly erasing with each stroke.

Move, Hayes.

A slide up. A roll of her wrist. A tightening of her fingers. A scrape of nails on the underside of my balls.

Don’t let her make you talk.

My head falls back, but my fingers are inside of her. A reminder to her of what I plan on claiming. Taking. Using to my advantage.

My. God. She. Owns. Me.

It’s only when she shifts, when my fingers slip from her pussy and a throaty laugh falls from her lips that I realize she’s dropping to her knees.

To suck my cock. To wrap her lips around it. Use her tongue. And take what I give her.

She’s winning the war.

I have to step back from the ledge. Do what’s sacrilege: reject the blowjob that I know will rock my world.
And make me talk
. Because put a hot, wet mouth and a skillful tongue on a man’s cock and there is no controlling what he says or how tight he’ll fist your hair.

With a pained groan, I put my hand to her shoulder and push her against the wall to stop her descent. Her eyes—so fucking gorgeous beneath desire drugged lids—flash up and lock on mine. The smirk plays on her lips. Her determination to make me talk is written all over her face.

So I hold her there—with both my eyes and my hand to her shoulder—and slip my fingers back into her. I start to work her into a frenzy. With my fingers and thumb. In and out and over her clit. Slide and stroke and flick and rub. Then all over again.

All the while her gaze is on mine. Her lips part. Her hips buck harder into my hand. Her fingers dig deeper into my shoulder. Her breath becomes labored.

I pick up my pace when I feel her pussy start to tighten around me. It’s now or never. So I work the spot within I know she likes. The one that makes her lose her mind.

“Oh. God,” she pants into the room.

It’s the sound of victory. The lighter caught flame.

And I stop all movement instantly.

I stand to full height as she stares at me—shoulders sagged against the wall, eyes wildly sexy, cheeks flushed, chest heaving—and smirk. Then casually glance down to my watch before focusing on tucking my rock-hard dick back into my slacks and zipping over it.
Carefully.

“You bastard,” she whispers—equal parts amusement, frustration, and disbelief.

And fuck if I don’t feel the same way when I look up at her. I work my tongue in my cheek as we stare at each other. My need for her so strong it fucking hurts. And then with a nod of my head, I walk out, and shut the door behind me without ever saying a word.

I’ve only walked away from Saylor two times before. The first time was brutal because I never came back. This second time is just as brutal, but at least
I know
I’m coming back.

I take a minute at the top of her stairs to wait for my dick to calm down. I pull my phone from my pocket and with my fingers still wet from her, fire off a text.

While victory may be sweet, it’s also reserved for those who are willing to pay a price.

And damn it to hell, I’m paying the price by walking away with her scent on my fingers and her taste on my lips.

Y
our A-Game? It’s damn good, Ships. You almost had me. But mine’s better. See I can show restraint too. Rematch in about 40 hours?

I stare at the text for the hundredth time, my body still strung taut from his touch and the smile still wide on my lips. I’m sexually frustrated but so damn content because he loves me. No man would go through this much trouble if he didn’t.

You’re a bastard.

I consider finishing myself off. Claim my orgasm he left unfinished but know half the fun is doing it with him. So instead I sit in the quiet of my room, with the paparazzi clamoring outside and the media filming downstairs. With a business proposal for a game-changing contract in the sent bin of my email, and a man I never thought I’d get back, owning my thoughts . . . and I wonder how all of a sudden this is my life.

And then he texts again.

Does it make you feel any better that I can still smell you on my fingers and it drove me crazy during that whole last interview?