Hard Compromise (Compromise Me 2)

“Answer me, Lauralie.” He gripped the base of his cock and slapped it between her thighs, hard enough to make them both groan.

The long muscles along the backs of her legs tightened, and she bowed away from the wall. “For the love of God, Booker put it in…”

“What didn’t work?” He slapped the damp juncture again, and blinked away the haze blurring his vision.

“This didn’t work.” Eyes flashing, she slid her hand down her stomach and between her legs. The backs of her fingers kneaded his cock as she stroked herself. “No amount of this worked—no matter how hard I tried.” She sounded genuinely aggrieved as she stroked faster. “My favorite setting on the massage showerhead didn’t work. My vibrator with my favorite setting on the massage showerhead didn’t work. Every part of me hurts, Booker. Especially here. So give me your goddamn cock, because you’ve ruined me for everything else.”

Thank Christ. Her confession loosened the claw of jealousy gripping him, but did little to soothe his other painfully primitive instincts. The pain only had one cure. Make sure she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt there were no other avenues of relief for either of them, and there never would be. “You think you’re ruined? Jailbait, the fact you kept me waiting for six fucking days tells me I haven’t even begun to ruin you. But I will now.”

Every muscle in his body tightened to make good on the promise, until his last, functioning brain cell issued a reminder. Condom. All the way upstairs in his nightstand. Fuck.

He must have cursed aloud, or else she read his mind, because she stopped touching herself, and held onto the edge of the table with both hands. “There’s no risk. Do it.”

Common decency dictated he offer her an assurance as well, but the thought of being inside her without any barriers took precedence over conversation. She trusted him or she wouldn’t allow him the privilege. He rewarded her trust with a table rattling thrust.

The intensity wrenched a cry out of her. She arched up to vertical, and clamped her hand over her sex, fingers forming a wide V where his girth strained the limits of her soft, tight center. Her mouth dropped open, and her head lolled back. “Oh, God. Don’t…” She inhaled carefully. “…move.”

He didn’t so much as twitch a muscle, but even so the first quivering spasms of her orgasm hugged his shaft. He endured them.

Whimpers of gratitude accompanied her exhale, and then the whimpers drew out into moans as the quick flutters deepened to rhythmic squeezes all along the length of his cock. Not moving ceased to be an option. He grabbed her ass with both hands, and jerked her forward until her shoulders hit the wall. “Hang on to something, Jailbait.” Long days spent craving this moment turned his voice to a growl. “I’m about to ruin you for good.”

Then he began to move. The next minutes…hell…seconds blurred into a series of quick-fire sensory assaults. Muscles burned as he thrust with abandon. Her heels dug into his shoulders. His hips pounded her ass every time he slammed into her, forcing gusty groans from deep in her throat. The relentless beat of the table hitting the wall hammered his ears, telling him his attempt to ease up was an abject failure. His balls grew slick from the pleasure he pumped out of her with every thrust. Her groan broke into a cry as the climax ravaged her, and pulled him in, too. He sank his fingers in her hair and brought her face close enough he could feel her breath on his lips. Dark pupils went wide in glassy blue eyes, and days worth of suffering shot out of him in a long, annihilating stream.

“Jesus Christ, you’ve ruined me, too, Jailbait. If you ever put me through a week of waiting again, I warn you now, neither one of us will survive the reunion.”

…

Little distractions slowly pierced the cloud of contentment surrounding her—the edge of the table digging into her back, her hamstrings stretching past the point of comfort, and her toes tingling from lack of circulation. Heavy exhales ruffled the hair at her temples. She pried her eyes open and confronted her foot, still propped high on Booker’s shoulder, but now much closer to her face because he was crashed against the wall with his head next to hers.

Maybe she groaned, or wiggled—she honestly didn’t know—but he murmured, “Give me a second, and I’ll untangle us.”

He might be the only thing holding her in place. If he moved, chances were good she’d slide to the floor in a boneless heap. “Don’t let go. I’m pretty sure I’ll fall…”

Or maybe you just don’t want to be shown to the door yet, which is idiotic, because you got what you came for.

His low laugh tickled her neck. “I’m not going to let you go, Jailbait.”

The laugh, the nickname—these

things told her his offhand comment meant he could handle her deadweight—but for some sad reason her ear heard a deeper pledge in the statement. True to his word, he eased back with slow control, so neither she nor the table risked toppling. Then he commenced dragging his extremely effective cock out of her, and all she could do was moan at the thought of him leaving her empty again after so much incredible fullness. The prospect compelled her to do something she never did—cling. “No. Not yet.”

Despite her outburst, he slid free. A hot trickle of moisture—his, hers, a combination of both—washed over parts of her still stinging from the aggressive friction they’d endured. God, her body literally wept for him. A late-breaking call for dignity had her struggling to close her legs, but he wrapped his hands around her thighs and held them open.

“Uh-uh. We’re not done. I know it wasn’t easy for you to swallow your pride and come here, but you needed me.” He parted her thighs wider to expose the source of the need. “Now it’s my responsibility to see to your needs—each and every one of them—and I take my responsibility very seriously. But my dick requires a few minutes of recovery time before it’s of any further use. Luckily, I have other ways to take care of you.”

Let him take care of you? Uh-uh. You take care of yourself.

Except she couldn’t, when it came to this. Not anymore. She’d spent a long, uncomfortable week learning that lesson. Damn him.

And worse, he knew it. The corner of his mouth cocked up. “You’re awfully quiet, Lauralie.”

“I’m not quiet, I just…” Have to find a way to retreat without looking like I’m retreating. “I don’t want to get in the way of any plans you had for tonight.”

Without taking his eyes off her face, he swept his thumb down her crease, drawing another gush of moisture from her and then using the residual traces of their release to lubricate her. “I don’t give a shit about plans.” Before she could find her tongue to speak, he slowly massaged her pleasure-swollen flesh. Her neck muscles gave out and she rested her head against the wall.

“I give a shit about you,” he went on, all the while circling and stroking, moving ever nearer to the knot of nerves already quickening at the prospect of his touch. “And because I do, I also give a shit about you answering my question. I’ll make it as painless as possible, but you know that’s part of the deal.”

The pace of his movements never changed, but even so, a slippery rope of panic tightened around her throat. She needed to get the hell out of there, because when she’d driven over here tonight, she hadn’t thought past trying to have her way with him. Instead, he was doing it again. Saying things that knocked her off balance, and made her want to hold him closer and run away at the same time. “Booker—”