Losing Control(34)
He holds out his hands as if he can stem my barrage of complaints. “I’m trying to make things easier for you. That place you live in now, Christ—” He rubs the back of his neck, one hand on his hip pushing his jacket back and exposing his shirt clad flat stomach.
“You’re a jerk, Ian Kerr. A presumptuous, I-get-what-I-want-no-matter-what jerk.” I stomp down the hall with my pack. I need to change and get ready to go. He’s right behind me. Fine. He wants to watch me change, then fuck it. I drop my pack on the floor and kneel down, pulling out my shoes, athletic socks and leggings. I pull off my jeans, acutely aware that Ian hasn’t moved an inch and that his eyes are all over me. Well, he can look all he wants, but he’s not ever getting in my pants. And I tell him that. “You might as well take a good look because this is the closest you’re ever going to get to seeing me naked.”
Chapter 13
LEANING ONE SHOULDER AGAINST THE wall, he sighs like I’m some tiresome child. “Bunny, what did I tell you about challenging me?”
“You can shove your hunter metaphors up your tight ass, Kerr.” I hop around pulling up the leg of my pants.
“I’m glad you’ve noticed. I had started to think I wasn’t making an impact. My huge ego was being crushed. By the way, I like the rose panties you have on,” he comments. “I particularly like how there are tiny bows right under the dimples in your back.”
Is that a smirk in his tone? Is he fucking smirking at me because I wore some of the underwear he bought? Then fine. I don’t need this stupid underwear either.
“You think you’re so cute, but what happens when you’re done with me? When I’m no longer interesting prey? When your little project is over? You must think my pussy is lined with fucking gold if I’m worth a million dollar apartment overlooking Central Park.” I hiss at him, pulling at the sides of the panties in an effort to jerk them off. Jesus, the lace must be made of titanium. People are constantly getting their underwear ripped off in movies.
“What are you doing?” he demands and brushes my hands away. I fight him, wanting him to let me go, but he pushes me up against the wall and thrusts his big, heavy thigh between my legs, stepping downward so that the spandex of my bike pants is down around my ankles. I feel hobbled and, worse, I’m turned on. His steel-hard muscle is pressing right up against my clit and his hands are pressing me backward so that I’m imprisoned between his chest and the hall wall.
“What makes you think I’ll be done with you?” he says as he moves my hands upward until they meet in an arch above my head and he can grip my wrists in one big fist. Free, his left hand slides down my arm, leaving a trial of goose bumps in his wake. His mouth is on my chin, my jaw, and then my neck. He’s tasting me, pressing the flat of his tongue against my racing pulse. “Maybe I’ll never be done with you and your solid gold pussy.” At the last word, he closes his mouth over that pulse point and sucks hard. The only thing holding me up is his hand around my wrists. He pumps his thigh against me and an involuntary moan escapes my lips.
“I don’t care,” I manage to choke out. It’s an obvious lie; my body cares a lot. “I’m not a toy. You don’t get to put me in Barbie’s expensive town home and play with me until you’re bored. I’m a fucking real person, and my mom’s a real person. And we don’t need this shit right now. I say who I sleep with and whose bed I'm in—and right now, you aren't even in the same conversation.”
“I am the entire fucking conversation.” He sucks hard at the spot where my neck curves into my shoulder, and his hand is under my ass, moving me backward and forward along his thigh. His other hand has worked its way under my shirt and is palming my breast, a large thumb rubbing my nipple.
I realize my hands are free and that I’ve been holding them above my head while he rubs all over me. When I drop my hands to his shoulders I find I don’t want to push him away. Instead, I use his shoulders as leverage to grind down on his thigh.
The nerve endings of my sex are hyper sensitized and I swear I can feel every thread of his superfine wool pants. His leg moves, a tiny hitch, but it interrupts the rhythm and removes the pressure. “Don’t you stop,” I threaten him, all the heat turning from anger to throaty desire.
“Shh, bunny, I got you.” He lifts me completely and spins me around. I have no option but to wrap my legs around him. A few quick steps and we’re in another bedroom with one giant bed and nothing much else. He tumbles us onto the bed and then lowers himself over me. There’s nothing in my field of vision but the hard planes of his face and the ruddy flush of desire on the high points of his cheekbones. He looks fierce and hungry.