Even if I’m standing in a back alley with my jeans pulled down over my hips while a man with a fake seventies pornstache has his hand inside my panties.
“I’ll remember you said that,” he says, slipping his hand out from between my legs. I look at him with a mixture of confusion and disbelief as he takes away his fingers – his glorious, magical fingers – from where they were a second ago, pressed against my clit.
“Wha –“ I start, my words trailing off as I watch him bring his fingers to his mouth. He makes a show of slowly licking them, his eyes closing as he makes a satisfied sound.
“All you have to do is ask, luv,” he says, his voice low. The corners of his mouth turn up, a smile that has to be the smuggest, most arrogant expression I’ve ever seen on anyone’s face. Or maybe it’s just compounded by the fact that I’m the most sexually frustrated I’ve ever been in my life.
“You’re such a…jerk,” I say, unable to think of a word more clever than that. I’m pretty sure that all of my brain cells have evaporated, or have been turned to mush because of this man.
I yank my jeans back up, fumbling with the button, my hands shaky and my heart pounding wildly in my chest as adrenaline pumps through my veins. Smoothing my hair, as if by that simple gesture I can calm my rebellious body, I look at him through narrowed eyes.
And the pompous ass just grins. He’s thoroughly pleased with himself. The fact that he’s so damn smug, as if he’s planned this the whole time, sends a surge of irritation through me.
“Just remember that,” he says, bringing his fingers to his lips again. “I’m going to fuck you, Isabella Kensington. That’s a foregone conclusion. And I’m going to lick that sweet pussy of yours until you’re begging for release. And when I give you permission, when I say you can come, you’re going to come on my tongue.”
My face flushes red. I can feel the heat rise to my cheeks, the throbbing between my legs so insistent now that I swear I consider saying “please.” I actually consider asking him to finish what he started, to plunge his fingers back inside me and make me come. But I don’t. I’ll never beg. “Permission?” I ask, choking out the word. “I don’t know what kind of women you’ve been with in the past, but you’re not giving me –“
He cuts me off, putting his fingers – the fingers that were just inside me – on my lips to silence me. “Shhh,” he says. “I’m not finished. You should let me finish, Belle.”
I push his hand away. “I’m not listening to –“
Before I can react, his hands are on my wrists, pushing me against the wall, and my heart races. I’m not sure whether I’m frustrated, angry, or aroused. All I know is that I can’t stop thinking about him inside me. And, despite the rational part of my mind that screams ‘walk away,’ every part of my body is crying out for his touch. I want to know what he wants to do with me.
I want him inside me.
“You’re going to come on my cock, Belle,” he says. “I’m going to own you in every way possible. And you’re going to beg to be mine.”
A secret thrill rushes through me at his words, and I hate myself for it. I steel my jaw, wrenching my wrists from his grasp. “Never,” I say. “And you’re delusional for thinking that.”
And yet, in spite of myself, I’m already wondering what he means by saying he wants to own me “in every way possible.”
He chuckles, and the self-satisfied sound makes me want to slap him across the face. But I don’t. Instead, I mentally congratulate myself on my incredible self-restraint.
Then he steps away, turning around and walking toward the end of the alley, ambling like he doesn’t have a care in the world. “Come on, luv,” he says. “Noah’s bound to be sending a search party out for us. I wouldn’t want you to get caught with your pants down.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Albie
Belle is ignoring me, sitting in the helicopter with her headset on, her arms crossed over her chest. She’s practically pouting.
I hate pouting. Hate it more than anything in the world. I hate whining and sighing, the passive-aggressive crap I get from women when I don’t want to see them again. Which is, obviously, every time.
I should hate the way Belle sits there, silent, acting as if I don’t exist.
I should hate the way her lower lip protrudes slightly, displaying her displeasure.
I should hate the way she was excessively friendly the rest of the afternoon, formal to the point of ridiculous, all “Prince Albert this” and “Prince Albert that.”