"You wanna play?" he asks, his voice rife with amusement. "Fine, then, we'll play. But you don't get what you want until I get what I want."
He sinks to his knees in front of me and presses his mouth to my seam, huffing a hot breath over my flesh. I wiggle, biting down on a whine. He reaches up to cup my ass, nips the tender skin of my thigh with his teeth. Breathes on my pussy again.
"Rush,” I whisper. "Fuck."
"That's the idea, yeah. I could be inside you right now, but you're playin’ games."
I feather my hands in his hair, but he grabs my wrists and presses my hands against the glass.
"No touching. Not till I get what I want."
"What do you want, Rush?"
"Take your bra off."
"You do it."
He shoots to his feet, a sly grin on his face. His hand flashes, blurring with blinding speed. There's a snap, and the dull back of a knife is cold against my sternum, the tip of a wicked, black, serrated, folding knife nicking the bottom strap of my bra.
"Your way, or mine?"
I’m tempted to call his bluff, but I know damned well he's not bluffing. I hold his eyes as I peel the sports bra off; my nipples pebble into hard little nubs as his eyes take in my bare chest.
"Jesus, woman. Fucking perfect." He folds the knife and shoves it into a hip pocket, then cups my tits in his hands.
“Keep calling me perfect, and you're gonna give a girl a complex."
He doesn't respond to that, a soft grumble of male appreciation rattling his chest. "Pants off now, Gorgeous."
I frown at him. "My pants are already off."
He snorts a laugh, toeing my jeans. "These are jeans, or trousers." He hooks a finger in the elastic of my underwear. "These are pants."
"Oh," I breathe.
"Now. Pants…off. Show me that pretty pussy."
He stands back and stares at me, thumbs hooked in his belt loops, his gaze heated.
I slide the underwear down, and his eyes follow my hips as I wriggle to shimmy my panties off, and now I'm nude, and he's fully clothed.
I gesture at him. "Shirt off."
He swaggers toward me. "I'll take it off when I'm ready."
"I gave you what you wanted. Now it's my turn." I reach for the hem of his shirt.
He grabs my wrists and shoves them up over my head—and just like that, I'm reminded of the strength difference between us. I'm a fit, strong girl. I lift weights, I spar, run, do yoga, surf, and paddleboard. I'm not some dainty little Pilates princess. But Rush’s strength is on a whole other level. He pins my wrists to the glass and nips my earlobe again.
"It's your turn when I decide it's your turn, Beautiful. And I've decided I'm feeling a bit…peckish." He moves his lips to my jaw, my chin, my throat. "Leave your hands up there or I'll stop."
"Wouldn't that be tragic?" I quip, going for insouciant.
It backfires immediately.
Rush releases me and steps back, hands in his pockets. "Wouldn’t it just?” He leans into my space, close enough to whisper without touching me. "That orgasm I gave you on the train? That was nothing. I've been told I have a magic tongue."
"I don't believe in magic."
