I Like Being Watched

I couldn't think of a single time that had ever been on my mind.

Sure, sex was usually good, something I wanted. But I'd never felt such a strong and immediate connection as I did right then.

"Wynn," Fitz called, pulling me out of my confusing thoughts and feelings as I leaned back against the wall, angling my head up to look at him. "There you are," he said as his free hand settled at the side of my throat as his cock slid out then surged back in. Slow, measured. And he seemed to take a lot of pleasure in watching my reaction to his surprisingly patient movements. "You're so fucking tight," he growled as he started to thrust faster, losing his tight grip on his control.

My arms went around the back of his neck, pulling him down toward me, muffling my moans with his lips as he fucked me harder and harder still.

"Come," he demanded as he felt my pussy clench hard around him as I teetered on that edge for a long moment before getting pushed over it, crashing down into my orgasm. "Fuck," he hissed, fucking me through it, drawing it out. But when I came back down, he was still hard inside me, still aching for more.

When my gaze found his again, he grabbed me, turned me, and pressed me forward, forcing me to grab the very top of the banister over the floor below.

Someone could pass by and look up at any time.

I was rubbing off on him.

But before I could relish that fact, he was fisting my skirt at my lower back and slamming inside me.

Hard.

Deep.

He dropped my skirt, his hands grabbing my hips instead, using them to slam me back against him as he thrust forward, forcing me to take each thick inch of him.

There was nothing slow or explorative of him right them.

He fucked me hard and fast, the sounds of our bodies slamming together rivaling the band in the living room below.

"That's it, squeeze my cock," he hissed as he pushed me to that edge, then tossed me over before I could even prepare for it. "More," he demanded as I just barely managed to keep a cry inside me as the final waves crashed through my system.

"I... can't," I whimpered, all my nerve endings feeling shot, leaving me frazzled and overstimulated.

"You're going to," he told me, releasing my hips to grab a handful of my hair with one hand, the pain blooming across my scalp with each thrust as he continued to fuck me, harder even than before.

His other hand moved forward, yanking down my bodice in the front, exposing my breasts to the air, to anyone below, to whoever might be driving past out the big foyer window.

Fitz's gaze was pinned on our reflection in that window as he fucked me, making my tits bounce.

His hand grabbed one of my breasts, squeezing for a moment before moving downward to slip between my thighs, engaging my clit, and proving to me that he was right.

I was going to come again.

"I'm going to come," I moaned, wiggling my hips in circles as he fucked me so hard, I was genuinely concerned we might both surge forward over the banister and fall to the foyer floor below.

"Yeah, you are," he agreed as my pussy tightened around him.

"Oh my God," I cried as he got me closer and closer. "Fitz," I moaned.

And just like that, his cock slammed forward as his finger swiped my clit.

And I fucking shattered.

I splintered all around.

My cry was a loud, uninhibited sound that ricocheted off the walls.

Before I could even realize what was happening, Fitz was dragging me backward with him away from the banister, knowing my cries would draw someone's attention.

Back in the relative privacy of the hallway, his hands grabbed my shoulders, holding me in place as he fucked me faster and faster as his body tensed, as he got close.

And when he came?

Yeah, it was my name on his lips.

Again, I was overwhelmed with that feeling of rightness even as I came back down from my orgasm, leaving me shaky and weak, and somehow both hot and cold at the same time.

"Christ," Fitz hissed as he pulled me back against his back, his arms going around me—one above my breasts, just under my clavicles, the other low on my hips.

Tight.

Possessive.

And, God, did I like that.

I shouldn't have.

It didn't make sense.

I liked the thrill of the chase. I got off on having a man want me, but not be able to have me. I didn't get all warm and fuzzy over a man who had me, who seemed to want to hold onto me. That wasn't how I was wired.

Or, perhaps, I'd just never found the right man in the past.

The right man?

No.

I didn't want that. I wasn't looking for that. And Fitzwilliam Buchanan was the last person I could ever have that with.