Sweet Cheeks(114)

To which I reply, Isn’t this considered talking?

The next interview takes place. Ends. The next set of texts are exchanged. Not talking. Just letting you know how it’s going to be.

How it’s going to be? A part of me likes this side of him. The other part hates it. I fire back a reply: Fine. I’m not going to talk to you either then. 43 hours left.

I watch Hayes take a seat for the next round, pick up his cell from the table, type something out, and then place it inside his suit jacket. Just when the reporter starts the opening question, my phone vibrates an incoming text. Good to know, but I doubt it. I’ll make you talk to me before the end of the day.

When I look up to him, he has a hint of a smirk playing on his lips. Silently taunting me and I groan in frustration. The cocky son of a bitch.

You’d be surprised how much restraint I can show. I didn’t punch Jenna, did I? See? Restraint.

For someone who says he’s not talking to me, he sure is communicating. That tells me this silent treatment is just as torturous for him as it is for me.

I think of our Twitter exchange this morning. And smile.

He wants me to bring my A-game?

I’ll bring it all right.




“I’m gonna head upstairs. I must have left the notes for the new recipe up there.”

“Okay,” DeeDee says, her perma-grin of the day still plastered to her face. She’s a little star-struck and a lot fascinated with the exhausting press junket process that seems both monotonous and exhilarating. “I’ll just be here. Watching. Swooning. Secretly hating you every time he gives you that I want you look of his.”

I laugh at her comment on my way up the stairs. After a few moments, I find my notes, grab a bottle of water from the refrigerator, and when I shut its door, Hayes is standing on the other side of it.

His presence is undeniable. Eyes dark with desire and his fingers fidget at his sides like he’s itching to touch me.

His cologne pervades my nose. The sight of him ignites every single nerve in my body. My nipples harden. My thighs tense while the delta between them aches. I open my mouth to speak—to say “hi, I missed you, screw the forty-something hours we have left”—but the ever-so-subtle curl of the side of his mouth stops me.

Reminds me.

Prevents me.

Tells me he wants to prove me wrong.

I bite my tongue. The amused curiosity in his eyes asks me if I remember my text swore I wouldn’t speak.

A visual war wages between us while our bodies wave the white flag and want to surrender to one another. He lifts a brow. A non-verbal taunt. I respond with a lick of my bottom lip while I run a hand down the side of my neck and between my breasts.

He shifts his feet as his eyes fixate on my hand as it moves down my body. But it’s my gaze that’s caught now. On the bulge in his slacks. On the flex of his hands beside his hips. By the groan he emits deep in his throat that reflects everything I feel in this moment: want and frustration and desire and obstinacy and need.

Hope you brought your A-game, Whitley.





She wants to play this game? Tease me? Taunt me with an I’m not going to talk to you either? How I wish it were my tongue running over her body instead of her hand.

You never mess with a man on a mission, and my mission is to have her. Everything about her. Every single way possible in my life.

Right now, included.

So that little text? It was like flicking a lighter and that first spark fizzling out. I plan on flicking it again though, and this time I’ll get a goddamn wildfire. Just on my terms and in my own time.

She stares at me.

Don’t do it, Hayes.

Eyes asking.

You’ve got ten minutes max before the next interview.

Lips pursed.

Flick the lighter, Whitley.

Nipples harden beneath her shirt. Teeth biting into her bottom lip.

But she texted. She taunted.

Body all but calling to me.

Light the flame.

Begging for me.

Said she won’t talk.

Lips part. Chest heaves.

Yes, she will.

I clear my throat and know where this is going to go. How painful it’s going to be for me, but love it all the same.

Her gaze shifts down and takes in my dick, desperately hard for her. Her tongue wets her lips. She draws in a breath and then looks back up to me.

I raise an eyebrow. An I’m not talking, are you going to?

She lifts her chin and just for a split second I’m reminded of double-dog dares in the field behind her house and her frequent defiance to prove a point. I thought it frustrating then. But now? Now with her standing before me—curves and sex and desire and lust in one fucking perfect package—I find her defiance irresistible.

Our eyes hold. Wage a war smothered in silence but loaded with desire.

And want.

And lust.

And need.

There’s a split-second of hesitation where restraint is tested, taunted, and toyed with.