“Jared,” I beg. “Please.”
Slam. He drives into me, one motion and we are united. My back arches from the bed as he drives us together, his fingers gripping my thighs as he grunts with effort. Harder. Faster. Deeper. He’ll split me apart.
I ask for more. “Please.”
My hands are useless, unable to reach him in this position, so I tentatively reach for my breasts, pinching my nipples into stiff peaks, flicking them between his thrusts.
“Touch yourself,” he demands, and I hesitate. I’ve never touched myself in front of a man, not even my husband Seth, whose vanilla tastes never strayed beyond a few basic positions.
Dirty talk? Nope. Sixty-nine? No, thanks. Toys? No way.
Jared halts our rhythm, pulling himself almost completely out of me. “I said, touch yourself, Grace. I don’t like repeating myself.”
I press my hand between my legs, delicately fingering my cleft.
“Not like that. Touch yourself the way you want me to touch you.”
I take a breath and close my eyes. I can do this. My finger traces my seam, two fingers parting my lips, honing in on the little bundle of nerves that sends sparks shooting through my body.
He plunges inside me once, then pulls back again. “Make yourself come. Right now.”
I part my lips to object, to explain that an hour ago I was frustrating the shit out of myself in this very same position. And I couldn’t come.
“No excuses, Grace. I’ll give you my cock only if you can push yourself to the brink while I watch.” As if to show me he’s serious, he pulls back further, his cock almost out of me.
I whimper and drive my fingers to do it. To take my pent-up desire and gather it into a single point, a ball of energy that drives straight into my clit. My fingers press harder, move faster, and Jared pulls out.
He drops to his knees, his face between my thighs, and he pushes my knees to spread them wide.
Embarrassment wars with my building orgasm. I feel his fingers trace my seam, from the cleft of my ass to my center. While my hand works my clit, he presses a finger inside me, curling and twisting to hit my G-spot.
Another finger, and his face is closer to my pussy, his hot breath fanning across me. I start to forget, to let go of the ropes that bind me to reality and this bed, this room, this city. This being watched.
I forget the embarrassment, the scar, the stretch marks. I think of skin and flesh and bone, the things that make us human. And energy and pleasure and pain, the things that make us alive.
And my orgasm, the thing that makes right now so real it strips away all the noise, distills the moment into just this. Just us. My back arches up, my chest expanding fast to take in panting breaths. My core clenches around Jared’s fingers and my clit twitches beneath my fingers in agony.
I release. I fly. I scream.
And before I can come back down Jared flips me, raises my hips, and drives his cock inside me. He reaches around my waist, his fingers finding my clit and he flicks the bud, extending my orgasm in wave after wave, through each time he plunges, until he finally crests and spills over inside me.
We collapse, heaving, his chest against my back. He rolls us and wraps an arm around my waist, his hand searching to cup my breast. His breath tickles the back of my neck and his lips skate across the edge of my neck, teeth gently nipping where my neck meets my shoulder.
When our breathing finally returns to normal, when I feel a deep sigh from his chest pressed to my back, I repeat the question that was on the tip of my tongue when he came in.
“What did you mean when you said—?”
“Shut up, Grace.” Jared chuckles. “We’ll fight about it in the morning.”
Chapter Thirteen
I wake to the sound of the shower and dawn light through my windows. The world seems suspended between who I am here and now, and who I could be.
Vice president.
It hardly seems real. And it isn’t, really. Not yet.
Jared walks into my bedroom, a towel slung low around his hips, his hair still glistening with moisture. My eyes immediately go to the dark hair below his navel and I feel myself clench and squirm with the memory of last night.
“We don’t have long, and your coffee maker is impossible.” Jared’s furrowed, grumpy brow indicates that this is unacceptable.
“It’s easy. You just don’t know how to handle it.”
I meet Jared’s glare and it’s a challenge. I haven’t forgotten our shouting match—well, it was mostly me shouting—and his firm declaration that this opportunity is over.
So why is he still here?
He turns his back to me and snatches his rumpled pants and shirt off the floor. I do what any human would do in this situation: I stare at his ass. Pop me some popcorn, I’m staying for the show.