The Negotiator (Harbor City 1)

“Why, Clover Lee.” He glided a finger across the swell of one cheek. “I’m shocked at your brazenness.”

“Liar,” she said, turning her head to look back at him as she wiggled her ass at him like a red flag at a bull. “If anything, you’re totally turned on by it. The next time we go out you’ll wonder the entire time if I’m wearing any panties.”

She was right and, no doubt, she knew it. Fuck, he was already going through every moment he’d seen her before and wondering if she’d been wearing underwear then. It was blissful torment, but nothing compared to having the woman ready, wanting, and half dressed in the middle of his bed.

“Guess that just means I’ll always have to check before we go out.”

The white, black, and red lines of a tattoo on her right cheek peeked out from under her dress. He hooked a finger around the material and pulled the unzipped opening wider, revealing an unmistakable cartoon kitten. It stopped him dead in his lusty tracks. He didn’t know what he’d been expecting, but this wasn’t it.

“Hello Kitty?”

“A youthful indiscretion.”

Now that he could believe. Probably a spur of the moment adventure, the kind that sounded so good at the time when you didn’t think about a lifetime with a cartoon tattoo on your ass. “I can’t wait to hear all about it, but there’s something else I want to hear first.”

“What?”

He slid his hands up the outside of her thighs, catching the hem of her dress and shoving it higher and higher until it was over her ass. Maybe it was on instinct or maybe it was because she wanted to hurry him along, but she spread her legs, giving him a front row seat to one of the wonders of the world. When he moved his hands again—this time cupping the back of her legs, letting his thumbs caress her inner thighs as he moved higher—it wasn’t in determination or dominance, but in reverence. Her skin was soft beneath his touch. Silky. Smooth. Addictive. And when he brushed against her swollen folds, they were wet with need—for him, for what they were going to do. Releasing the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, he brushed the pad of his thumb against her core.

Her answering moan nearly undid him.

“I wanted to hear that.” He licked the taste of her off his thumb. “Just as sweet as I imagined in the shower. Do you know what I was fantasizing about doing to you while I jerked off?”

Her eyes were closed, her mouth open slightly, and her words came out breathy, “Tell me.”

“No.” His hand went to the few still fastened buttons on his shirt. “I’m going to show you.”

…

Lying on her stomach, her breaths coming in shaky bursts, Clover’s world turned electric. Every nerve. Every breath. Every touch. Everything was supercharged.

She squeezed her eyes shut. The sensation of Sawyer’s fingers as they traced long, lazy patterns across the very farthest outreaches of her wet folds, over the curves of her butt, up and down the sensitive back of her thighs, was almost too much. Adding sight would overwhelm her. Just the glimpse she’d had of him as he’d stripped off his shirt in a determined rush, followed up by kicking off his shoes and stepping out of his pants had her squirming. Her attempt to roll over onto her back and fully enjoy the show had been met with a firm smack on her ass and a practically growled order to stay exactly where she was.

Sawyer was as silent now as the first moment he’d touched her desire-dampened flesh. Was that a minute ago? Five? Eternity? She had no fucking clue. All she knew was that she was lying face down in the middle of his bed—her dress up around her waist and her heels still on—drowning in tormented desire. Even if she wanted to, she didn’t think she’d be able to stop the nonsensical pleas and sighs of pleasure with every downward stroke, slow circle, and exploring thrust of his devastatingly talented fingers.

Fisting the red sheets in her hand, another moan escaped as he slipped two fingers, crossed as if making a promise, inside her and slid them forward and back against her most sensitive spots. His thumb never left contact with her clit. He didn’t rotate the nub. He didn’t rub it. He maintained just the right amount of pressure to keep her strung tight and yearning.

“Sawyer,” she cried out, pressing her face into the sheets.

“What do you want?” Calm. Patient. Ready to drag it out forever. He twisted his fingers inside her, turning them enough that they rubbed against the bundle of nerves inside her entrance.

Too far gone to process the words, all she could do was balance on the boundary of pleasure and pain. “More.”

In and out, this way and that, he played her desire, propelling it—propelling her—toward climax but refusing to do what it took to send her over into oblivion. The bastard. Even without looking at him, she knew he was doing it on purpose. A little payback for teasing him in the elevator? Probably.

“Be specific.” He squeezed her ass with his massive hand, each strong finger marking her—not in a way that left bruises, at least not the kind you could see. “What do you want?”

Specific? How could she be that when her world was coming apart in brief flashes of ecstasy? But she dug deep, found the words. “I want to come.”

“Already?” He had the balls to laugh while she was reduced to begging. “We just started.”

“Please.” Shame didn’t have a place when she was this close to orgasm.

For the first time, he moved his thumb, a slow, easy circle around her aching clit. “Are you conceding this negotiation?”

The yes was almost past her lips before she clamped her mouth shut. Negotiation. She smiled despite her body’s mounting frustration. The man did love to play his games.