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Jay pulls his lips to the side. “Can you hurry? I want to get there before nine.”
“What’s happening at nine?”
“I’m getting drunk,” he answers smartly. He shuts the door to the balcony behind me. “So, hurry up, Jules.”
“Don’t rush me,” I warn, shooting him a look. “You know I hate being rushed. I’ll be ready when I’m ready.”
He tries to time his eye-roll so I’m looking away when he does it, but he screws up and I fully catch him in the mirror.
“Asshole,” I chide, flipping him off in response.
“Whatever,” he mutters. He checks his watch. “I’ll meet you there.”
“Fine,” I agree.
Alone, I hold up two dresses and try to decide which one will look better on me for an evening of sitting around and wondering if Gus is coming. I go with a short red number I know will turn heads.
A knock sounds on the door to the suite and I can’t ignore how easily the simple sound makes my stomach light up. My dress isn’t even zipped up in the back, but I still jog through the suite, clutching the front of my dress against my tits to keep it in place.
When I open the door, I find Gus in a black button-down shirt paired with black pants and a matching jacket. He’s perfect. My relief at seeing his face is embarrassing, practically palpable. He looks so good, it takes everything I have to play it cool and keep from throwing myself into his arms.
My resolve lasts for all of three seconds.
I launch myself at him, holding my dress with one hand and practically strangle-hugging him with the other. A wave of his scent hits me while we embrace, and he smells familiar and wonderful.
His lips go to my cheek. “Hey.”
“Hi.”
“I missed you.”
“I missed you too,” I whisper, squeezing him tighter.
He pulls back, but he keeps his hand on the curve of my neck. “I’m here now.”
His gaze trails to where my hand is holding up my dress. Minutely, his lips fold over his teeth and he bites down. His tongue pokes out, wetting his lips before he says, “Julia. We’ve talked about what you wear when you answer the door. A bikini is one thing, but this—” He waves his hand over me. “If you were to move your hand, you would be—”
“Naked?” I ask innocently, before I drop my hand.
And, as promised, I’m left completely naked.
He blinks hard, taking me in hungrily before he steps into the suite, slams the door shut behind us, and picks me up in both arms.
“August—”
“Shut up,” he grits against my lips. “Neither of us is saying another word until you’ve come with my cock inside of you.”
I’m too deliriously excited to put him in his place for that comment, so I vow to set him straight later. For now, I’m not about to argue with a man who I’ve yearned to touch for the last two months.
His hands palm me knowingly, proprietarily, while he carries me to my bedroom and drops me on the bed. I play unwilling, making a half-assed attempt to crawl away, but he catches me by the ankle and pulls me down until my leg hangs off the bed.
The expression of fury on his face drips with power, even if I know it’s for show. When he flips me over onto my stomach, I moan with anticipation, knowing he’ll make it rough for me.
Big hands run down my bare back, flattening the goosebumps peppering me. Anticipation turns to pleasure. He kneads my skin, focusing on my shoulders first, then my lower back, until he grips my bare ass.
He said it in Cartagena: “Next time I see you, I’m going to take your ass so well, you’ll be begging me for forgiveness for all the games you play, all the stunts you’ve pulled.”
I want to tell him yes. I want to tell him to keep going and to do what he promised because I’m game for anything he wants. But he ordered me not to speak, and for the first time in my life I want to do exactly what I’m told.
