A Ruthless Proposition

By: Natasha Anders

“Yes! Damn you.” She truly hated him in that moment, and a bit of venom seeped into her voice. “Yes, I want you. I crave this. I need . . . oh.” This last as he inched forward with such slowness and care that it felt like forever before he was buried from tip to hilt. He was almost uncomfortably large, and it took her out of the moment for a brief second. Sensing her discomfort, he rested there and gave her time to adjust to his size while he lowered his head and focused his lavish attentions on her breasts again. He braced one of his hands on the bed beside her head, keeping his weight off her, and allowed his other hand to go roaming. When that hand finally dawdled its way down to where they were joined, Cleo was already arching her hips toward his. He grinned and slid his free hand under her to palm her butt and adjust her position. He sat upright, knelt between her spread thighs, and dragged her even closer.

It was a seriously sexy position, sprawled flat on her back while he feasted his eyes on her uninhibited nakedness. He lifted her higher, forcing himself even deeper inside, and then, with a wicked grin, finally began to move again.

“Play with your breasts!” he commanded, his voice sounding a little breathless. She complied, rolling the distended nipples between her thumbs and fingertips, then flicking at them. He grunted in approval and moved his hands to her hips, angling her upward while he continued his assertive thrusting. God, he is magnificent. Sweat beaded on his forehead, dampened his hair, and added a fine sheen to his bronzed skin. He kept his focus on where they were joined, watching intently as he plowed into her tightness. His brow furrowed and his chest heaved, the first real signs that he was as affected as she was.

“Give me your hand,” he growled, and she reluctantly released one taut nipple and lifted her right hand toward him. He didn’t release her hips. Instead, he leaned down, captured her middle finger in his hot mouth, and sucked it inside. After one final seductive lick, he released her finger.

“Touch yourself,” he said, and she groaned before obediently doing as he had commanded. “Good.” The word was so gruff it was barely recognizable.

Cleo was unbelievably turned on by the picture she presented to his lascivious gaze. She had never been sexually shy, but this was . . . this was way beyond anything she’d ever experienced. Her back arched off the bed, her thighs lay sprawled across his, and she was quite unashamedly pleasuring herself for his—and her own—gratification. This was complete abandonment with the least likely man in the world, and she wasn’t at all sure how she’d gotten here.

She was well past the point of no return and the inevitable was but a heartbeat away, and then . . . it was there and so cataclysmic that her whole body simply clenched. The sharp cry that she uttered died in her throat as every single atom of her being focused inward on an explosion of pleasure so powerful it tore her apart and left her feeling vulnerable and emotionally raw.

His orgasm finally took him. She watched in fascination as his eyes slid shut, his head flew back, and every cord in his neck stood out in stark relief. He gritted his teeth, preventing even the faintest of sounds from emerging. Only the sharp catch and gradual release of his breath gave any indication of how much the climax had affected him. She resented his control. Hated how she had given herself so completely while he, for all intents and purposes, had kept a cool head from that first kiss to this last lazy thrust.

His grip on her thighs finally loosened, and she imagined she’d have bruises in the shape of his fingertips on her butt and thighs by morning. She could barely move as he smoothly extricated himself from her, tugged off the condom, and fell flat on his face on the bed beside her, his long, muscular legs still entangled with hers.

“Thanks, Chloe. I needed that.” His voice was slurred. He sounded like a very drunk or very tired man, and the gentle snore that followed a mere second later confirmed the latter fact. Cleo sighed, trying not to be completely demoralized by the fact that this man, whom she had known for nearly four frickin’ months, had just called her by the wrong name. She maneuvered her way completely out from beneath him, sat on the side of the bed, and pushed herself up onto unsteady legs, feeling like a newborn calf. She knew she should probably get back to her own room, because she very much doubted that he would appreciate waking up with her still beside him.

She hunted around the room for her dress and underwear but couldn’t find her panties. Why did it have to be her panties? She dressed hastily and was thankful that her walk of shame would span only the length of his room to the connecting door that led to her room. Nobody else would see her.

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