Play Me Hot (Play Me 2)

He feels so good, tastes so good—like the beer he had at dinner mixed with the sweet and wild desert wind that likes to whip through the city at the least provocation.

“Sebastian.” His name is a prayer, a plea, a cry of desperation and desire as my hands slide up his heavily muscled back and tangle in the wild silk of his hair.

“Aria,” he answers, and my name is sweet on his lips. On his tongue, as it sweeps along the seam of my lips, explores the corners of my mouth. “I love the way you taste.”

I start to answer him, to tell him I feel exactly the same way, but then he’s sucking my lower lip between his teeth, biting down softly, and any thoughts I have scatter like poker chips after a winning hand.

Heat slams through me and I gasp, hands curling into fists. Fingers tugging at his hair, pulling sharply. He groans low in his throat and then his free hand is on my hip, his fingers digging into my ass. Not hard enough to hurt, but definitely enough to remind me that he’s the one in control.

The reminder only makes me hotter, and I can’t stop myself from moving restlessly against him. I want more than he’s giving me. Need more than I ever imagined I would.

But Sebastian is having none of it. He nips sharply at my lip in reprimand, but it only pulls me under. Even the gentle strokes of his tongue that follow the bite—strokes meant to soothe away the small hurt—do nothing but drag me deeper.

Deeper.

Deeper.

Deeper.

Until nothing matters but Sebastian and this moment and the sweet lassitude seeping like syrup through my whole body until I nearly drown in it.

And still it’s not enough for him. Still he pushes for more.

He slides his hand up my throat to my chin, tilts my head up and back a little more. And then he takes me over, his tongue sweeping inside my mouth to slide against my own. To stroke over the roof of my mouth, down the side of my cheek. To tease and taunt and torment me until all I can think of is him.

Until all I want is him.

I tug at his hair again, even more sharply this time, and he responds by slamming his hips against my own which in turn slams my ass against the cold, hard glass of the picture window.

Not that I’m complaining. This is what I’ve wanted all along. The time for playing, for the slow, sweet, luxurious build of desire, is long past. In its place, need is a desperate, destructive force between us, rising like a desert dust storm until it all but swallows us whole.

Chapter Three

Sebastian

Jesus, she’s sweet. Like cinnamon and apples and warm, dark honey that melts on the tongue. Sweet and soft and gorgeous, so gorgeous, as she loses herself in the darkest, deepest kiss I have ever been a part of.

The only problem is I’m losing myself just as readily.

I started this because I want her and because I want to show her what it means to truly have control over every aspect of herself—her choices, her body, even her orgasm. And yet I’m the one being tested here, the one whose control is slipping a little more with every second I spend touching her.

Deep inside me I can feel it welling up, the need to take her, to have her, and to hell with the consequences. I want to fuck her here, up against the window. Want to whirl her around and bend her over the back of one of my chairs and pound into her from behind. Want to drop her sweet, luscious ass on my desk, sink to my knees in front of her and feast.

But losing control like that won’t help her, won’t give her anything but an explosive orgasm or two. And while I’m not one to knock a well-needed release, if I can just hang on, if I can just regain the control that’s been second nature to me for such a long time, there’s so much more out there for her. For us.

Because I like the way she responds—with desperate little sounds in the back of her throat and a shimmy of those glorious hips of hers—I bite at her lower lip again. Sure enough, Aria whimpers, shifts against me even as she winds her fingers through the belt loops on my pants and tugs me closer.

I don’t give her what she wants, though. Partly because she didn’t ask and partly because I want more. Maybe it’s selfish of me, but I’m dead set on hearing my Aria sing.

With that thought uppermost in my mind, I pull her closer, thrust my tongue into the warm velvet of her mouth.

She’s so much softer than I imagined she would be when I jacked off in my bathroom yesterday, so much hotter than I dreamed her last night.

“Please,” she murmurs against my lips. “I’m ready.”

Her words rocket down my spine, shoot through my dick. And there’s a part of me that wants to yield to her softly spoken words. After all, I just taught her that control is about asking for what you want—demanding it—and she’s done that.

She wants this. Wants me. I can feel it in her mouth. In her fingers tangling and tugging at my hair. In her nipples hard against my chest and her hips so restless against my own.