“Say it. Let me hear you say it.” His lips are a hairsbreadth away from my own as he whispers,“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
Goosebumps break out on my skin as his words send a chill down my spine. They sound seductive, falling off his tongue, which I know is his intention.
“Get off me, Shooter,” I mutter once more, knowing there’s zero oomph behind the words. I don’t want him to get off me. The opposite, actually. I want him to pin me down on top of this bench, using the hand around my throat and the weight of his body. I want it more than I’ve wanted anything before, and I hate myself for it. It’s pathetic, the hold he has on me, and I don’t just mean physically.
“Say it, and I will. Scout’s honor.”
Huffing out a laugh, I say, “You were no scout.”
“Say it, Addams. Otherwise, I’m going to start to think you don’t actually want me to get away from you.”
I swallow a groan, my eyes narrowing at him, which only causes him to smirk harder. He’s getting off on this. I don’t have to look at his crotch to know that. And the fucked-up thing is, so am I. My body is thrumming with a need for him stronger than I’ve ever felt before. Every inch of me vibrating with lust, wanting him to close the distance and take what he wants.
My tongue pokes out, wetting my lips, an inferno igniting in my veins as I watch his eyes dip down and track the movement. The air is humming between us, an electric current from me to him.
“Come on, Addams. I know you can do it for me,” he taunts, his deep voice husky, throaty. It licks away at my barely there restraint, making me want to fold. Give him what he wants.
“I… I can say it. I don’t know why you’re making it such a big deal, or why you want to hear it so bad.”
“Because…” He leans in, brushing the tip of his nose over mine. “I think you’re a good boy who probably has good southern manners, and while that’s great, I want to see you get a little dirty. Hear you be a little vulgar. Just for me, though. Our little secret.” The hand not wrapped around my throat snakes around my back, and in one swift move, he yanks me toward the edge of the table until our bodies are flush. “So, let me hear it, baby. Let me hear you be bad for me, like I know you can.”
Oh, God.Shooter has no right being this hot. He is confidence and sex embodied, and hell if that doesn’t turn me on.
“Fine,” I grit out. “I’ll say it.”
He doesn’t respond. Instead, he simply smiles like the cat that got the canary, knowing he won. Knowing I’m folding and giving in to him like the pathetic man I am.
I don’t know why my heart is racing as fast as it is. It’s one word. It’s not like he’s asking me to suck his dick again. I’ve never even noticed I don’t say it; it’s not like I go out of my way to purposely not use the word. It’s just not in my vocabulary. But now, right here with him staring down at me, it feels much more significant than a single word.
It feels like a proposition. A move.
Knowing I’m never getting out of this, and wanting to just get it over with, I clear my throat and wet my lips once more, steeling my gaze, before muttering the one single word he’s apparently dying to hear me say.
“Fuck.”
His lips turn upward, and I practically preen under his approving stare. “Dirty boy.” The two words come out as a throaty growl before he crashes his lips down on mine, stealing my breath and lighting up my body like the Fourth of July. A moan slips out before I can stop it, hands reaching out to fist his shirt, be it to pull him closer or push him away, I’m not entirely sure. Shooter’s tongue teases along the seam of my lips, seeking entrance, and like the glutton I am, I part them, letting him in.
This time, it’s his turn to groan into my mouth when our tongues clash together, the kiss both brutal and tender at the same time. He reaches between us and cups me over my pants, and it’s like a bucket of cold water dumped on my head, clearing the fog that comes whenever I’m near him.
Reaching up, palms to chest, I shove him away with much more force than before, and this time, he lets me. The smirk on his face tells me all I need to know.
“God, what is wrong with you?” I huff, jumping off the table, putting some much-needed distance between us. “This”—I indicate between us—“cannot happen, Shooter!”
His brows furrow. “Why the hell not? If we’re both into it, why does it matter? Are you dating anybody?”
I shake my head, brows knit together. “What? No.”
“Okay, me either. So, again, I ask why does it matter?”
“The fact that you even have to ask proves everything,” I scoff. “You’ve already made a name for yourself in this world. People know you. They respect you and know what you’re capable of.”
“Okay, and?”
I grumble, my frustration growing that he can’t see what’s right in front of his face. “And I haven’t, Shooter! I am brand new, and I can’t do that if I’m overshadowed by being just another notch on your belt buckle. I refuse.”
Not bothering to wait for a response, I turn on my heel and head back to where everyone else is, suddenly feeling a whole lot more sober than I did before.
10
