Chapter 15: Davis
Olivia and I stumble into my apartment, continuing a feverish kiss that began in the elevator that was fueled by the show that we nearly put on for my driver, Curtis.
As an aside, I absolutely owe Curtis an apology—and a raise now that I think about it. To be completely honest, I probably owe him a referral to a great therapist, because after driving me around since I was in middle school, he finally had to witness me doing that in the back of the SUV. I sure as shit wasn’t going to stop though.
When we separate by the front door, Olivia looks so gorgeously out of sorts with her hair tousled by my hands and her dress sitting crooked on her flawless figure. She breathes out, eyes traveling over my face as she drops her purse onto the floor with a clatter. Then her hands go to her shoulders like she’s about to remove her dress and reveal her perfect body to me.
Mine.
“Where—”
I cut her off by lifting her off of her feet. She squeals, but quickly wraps her legs around my waist and loses one of her shoes in the process. We don’t stop for it. She doesn’t need shoes—fuck, she doesn’t need anything where we’re headed.
She continues to kiss me frantically, her lips working like they’re magnetized to my neck as I head down the hallway and into my bedroom. My skin is tingling and I’m trying so damn hard to hold back a groan every time she bites down between kisses, but I stay focused.
I have to pry her off of me to drop her onto the bed. Giggling, she bounces once before she settles in the center of my king-size mattress.
She stares up at me, her face bright with near-giddy anticipation. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen Olivia this excited about anything before. If I weren’t about to give her the ultimate mindfuck, I would have been thrilled to see her like this.
But once again, I’m not here to make her like me.
I waste no time shedding my clothes, recalling how she practically short-circuited at her first glimpse of me shirtless last Saturday. If she likes me shirtless, she’s definitely going to enjoy seeing me in much less than that.
“Strip,” I instruct, giving her a command that she knows well.
No surprise, she’s quicker than I am. In a matter of seconds, she has thrown aside her remaining shoe, her dress, and her underwear. And there she is: naked and on display, waiting for me. The confident, uniquely-Olivia look on her face tells me that she’s thinking exactly what I’m trying to quash: that I am the luckiest son of a bitch alive to have the privilege of touching her.
Her attention doesn’t leave me as I finally get my pants off, and I’m left in nothing but a pair of boxer briefs. The pure lust on her face is undeniable—but while sexy, it irks me. It’s beyond obvious that she prefers the toned, cut man in front of her to the doughy, awkward guy she screwed eight years ago. And yeah, I happen to be both of those men, but that doesn’t take away all of the sting.
That dose of reality is much-needed though. It’s exactly the thing to bring me back to my mission: Retribution. Vindication. Justice. Take her out to dinner, spoil her, give her a small taste of the tenderness that made her fall apart eight years ago—and rip it out from under her.
Focus, Davis. Focus.
“Crawl,” I order, finally flipping the switch.
Olivia blinks a couple of times as usual, her mind clearly working on overdrive to process what I’ve requested. I don’t blame her. I did just tenderly seduce her in the restaurant and in the car. It was nothing. Hell, she couldn’t have made it easier.
Taking brief pity on her, I raise my chin towards the pillows at the top of my bed. “Crawl to the headboard. When you get there, I want you to put your hands on it and face the wall.”
“Oh.” Her face tightens with uncertainty as she takes in my instructions. After a beat, she lifts one shoulder. “I thought—”
“Crawl.”
Whatever hesitation she holds lingers in her expression. It doesn’t take a psych degree to figure out what’s bothering her. In other words: mission accomplished. I set out to bait and switch her, to lull her into thinking she’d get the sweet guy she met in Amsterdam.
He’s not here.
Slowly, Olivia rotates until she’s on her hands and knees and begins a gradual crawl to the top of the bed. The sight has my pulse skyrocketing: her perfect ass is on display and her plump breasts hang down as she moves, her actions cautious and unsure.
When she reaches the headboard, she does as she’s told—like such a good girl. She sets herself up there, taking her sweet time for both of our benefits. All the while, her ivory skin is speckled with goosebumps and her ass is tinged pink from my grip. From top to bottom, she looks like the walking definition of disharmony: confused and horny all at once. After a beat, she looks back at me with those striking green eyes of hers, waiting.
I let her wait.
I let her wait some more.
More.
It takes everything I have to allow a full minute to pass—a minute of agonizing silence where I stare at her with a serious look on my face. She grows increasingly impatient the entire time, probably sick of my shit. Sick of me.
Good.
Finally, I join her on the bed. Kneeling behind her, I place my hand on her bare ass. It fits right in my grip, the curve of it pressing nicely against my palm, feeling so soft. She’s soft all over—softer than she was before. I can’t get enough of it, but I don’t allow myself to linger for too long. I have business to attend to, after all.
I surge forward, allowing my cock to press against her hip. She shivers at the touch—at the closest our two bodies have been to the elusive act of fucking. My lips go to her ear, and I whisper a line that came to me in a fantasy, that I’ve spent years planning on saying to her:
“From this night on, you won’t be able to hear me speak without thinking of my tongue buried deep in your pussy.”
I don’t wait around for her reaction, partially for shock value and partially because I’m not sure if that sounded as sexy aloud as it did in my head. I won’t let her see me falter. She won’t see me get nervous around her. I yank her back by her hips and maneuver her downwards instead, spreading her knees with my hands until she’s in the exact position that I want: legs wide, body low, and hands clutching the headboard for dear life.
With all the finesse I can muster, I lay on the bed and wiggle up until my face is right beneath her—right beneath her glistening wet slit.
Olivia doesn’t need an explanation for what’s about to take place, which is a relief because my mouth is about to be extremely busy. Latching my hands on her thighs, I tug her down to me until her body meets my mouth in contact—sweet, sweet contact.