The Obsession (Filthy Rich Americans 2)

Help me? How was I supposed to say what my issue was? And asking me to tell him was awfully rich. I pushed away from the wall and gave him a hard look. “We all have our secrets, Royce. I’m tired and going to bed. Good night.”

My body was taut with anticipation. It gripped me so hard, everything ached from its nervous clench. I actively tried not to think about Macalister as I prepared, but that backfired. Trying not to think about him made it impossible not to. He’d turned my brain against me.

At ten-thirty sharp, the vibrations kicked in, and I welcomed the sensation. My mind emptied of thought, other than how good the toy lodged inside my body felt. And once my mind was cleared, then I imagined it was Royce at the helm, controlling my pleasure.

I pictured him now, wearing one of his best suits, kneeling on the bed between my spread legs. He had his phone in his hand and a dastardly smile on his lips. His gaze would focus on the toy pulsing and watch how my hips moved in little circles, desperate for release.

The vibration pattern changed into a sharp staccato rhythm, and I stifled a moan. Heat blasted down my spine, but goosebumps lifted on my skin. In my head, Royce’s expression dripped with desire, and the sight of me writhing under his command was too much. He smoothed a hand down the fly of his pants and gripped the heavy bulge swelling there. I’d never seen the sight in real life, but my imagination was so vivid. The picture I painted was carnal. His expensive watch peeking out from under his shirt sleeve and cuff of his jacket, his sexy hand squeezing back his pleasure.

I wanted him.

I’d had him.

And I wanted him still, worse than I had a year ago.

Grinding against the motorized silicone and empty sheets wasn’t enough. At this moment, I didn’t care if he’d told me nothing but lies, I would settle for what we had. I’d let him use me, and I’d use him, and after enough time pretending, maybe the feelings would become real between us, matching the way our bodies longed to be together.

“Fuck,” I groaned to myself.

In my fantasy, Royce couldn’t get his pants undone fast enough. His hands were clumsy with eagerness, ripping down his zipper. He tossed the tail of his tie over his shoulder and out of our way before he lowered down to meet me. I wanted to feel his weight against my body. The pressure of him. I needed to tangle my hands in his thick hair and bite his lip as he tried to kiss me.

I lost control the moment I imagined him shoving himself inside me with one deep, unapologetic thrust.

My orgasm was fire. I cried out as ecstasy swept through me, burning along my nerves in pinpricks of heat and bliss. Instinct took over, and I reached down, turning off the overwhelming vibrator because the pleasure was so acute, it hurt. The buzzing ceased, plunging the darkened room into near silence, punctuated only by my uneven gulps of breath.

The orgasm was so mind-numbingly powerful, I lay on the bed for a long while, unable to move or think, only recover.

Slowly, reality came back to me, and I picked up my phone.

Me: One.

The message delivered, then said it had been read, but no dots appeared to indicate Macalister was typing. Instead, my screen turned to black, his name flashed across it, and my ringtone punched through the quiet.

Holy. Shit.

Panic made my stomach bottom out. What was I going to do? I couldn’t not answer his call, but how the fuck was I supposed to talk to him now? I closed my eyes and held my breath, praying the phone would miraculously stop ringing. Was there any chance he’d called me by mistake?

Don’t be so fucking stupid, Marist.

I tapped the screen, and my voice was a ghost. “Hello?”

There was no greeting, only his angry question. “Why is it off?”

“Because it was too intense,” I blurted. “And I already came, so I thought—”

“Turn it back on, now. I’m not finished with you.”

My heart halted painfully, but in the aftermath of my orgasm I was weak. I fumbled with the phone as I followed his order. “Okay,” I said on a shaky breath. “It’s on.”

“And it’s inside you?”

I bunched a handful of the silky duvet in my fist. It was barely a whisper. “Yes.”

“I don’t believe you. You’ll take a picture and send me the proof.”

My brain went black as it short-circuited. He was insane. There was absolutely no way I was going to take a picture of me wearing the vibrator and text it to him. “No.”

“No?” I could picture the arrogance on his face on the other side of the conversation.