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The tie gets loosened and then it and the shirt are gone. My eyes drink in the expanse of muscled chest and abs, defined shoulders and biceps and I’m momentarily hypnotized by the sight of my crazy stalker.
He drops the suit pants and toes off his dress socks and then he’s got a knee to the bottom of the bed and he’s moving until he’s hovering over me in just his tight black boxer briefs.
“You want what was in the glass?” he asks.
I shake my head and internally cuss myself out for the intrusive thought about wanting what’s in his underpants.
“Wanna see it at least?”
I shake it again.
“Hm,” he muses. “Guess we’ll figure that out before tomorrow. For now… we can occupy ourselves.”
I’m staring and thinking all sorts of thoughts about my Derek problem. Bitchy doesn’t work. Fighting mad doesn’t help; he’s too strong. What if I just lie here? What if I don’t react to the stunts he pulls? What if I freeze him out by being as unemotional and unexpressive as I can be? Would that do it? Would that make him give up this ridiculous game he’s playing?
His eyes close and I’m fascinated by his eyelashes for a brief moment. So fixed on them I miss the descent and now his lips press to mine.
I remain still.
He backs up an inch before he moves back in, lips touching mine with the addition of him touching the tip of his tongue to my cupid’s bow as he leans down and rests on his left elbow, right hand moving in, now cupping my jaw.
“This is where we’re gonna raise a family, Chloe. This house, that yard out there.” He tucks some of my hair behind my ear and rubs the tip of his nose against mine. “Have kids climbing in here with us on Saturday mornings to cuddle or jump on the bed, wanting me to get up and make pancakes and play outside with them while you get to lie in bed reading a book until you can’t stand missing out on the laughter and join us in that treehouse.”
I do my best to remain perfectly still, but despite my efforts, my nostrils flare and I really need to fucking swallow.
His hand leaves my jaw, caresses my boob, and then glides down until it’s to my knee where he grips behind it and lifts, so it’s cocked.
“Gonna push me away? Tell me not to?” He cups my ass.
I say nothing. I stare at him, trying to be stoic, unemotional, which is difficult. Not only because of the physicality here, but also because of the nerves he’s just struck with his talk of kids and pancakes and lazy Saturday mornings.
His fingertips slip inside my underwear and move until they slide straight through the heart of me.
Damn biology, he’s found me wet. Again.
Eyes sparkling with mischief, Derek asks, “Not gonna fight?”
I shrug, doing my best to give him an ‘I don’t give a shit’ attitude.
“But I want you to fight me, baby. Because you come so much harder when I overpower you. Don’t you?” He chuckles devilishly.
Smug bastard.
I keep my expression frozen somehow.
But then his hand snakes up and the zipper of my dress is pulled down. He pulls the dress up over my head and tosses it before he fiddles down below and abruptly yanks the fabric of my underwear to the side and slams forward, filling me past the brink, making me react involuntarily both audibly with a grunt and physically as my lower back leaves the mattress and I grab him by the hair.
One of his hands grips the length of my hair, too, and he devours my mouth in an aggressive kiss. He pulls his hips back before slamming forward again. Harder. And I grip his hair tighter as I arch into it, cross heels clamped just beneath his backside.
He pulls out, grabs my ankles and gets my legs up so my ankles are at his shoulders. He tears my underwear up and off before he plunges back inside, caressing my legs, slipping his right hand across my hip to get his thumb to my clit.
One leg is pushed wider to accommodate Derek’s hot mouth, which closes around my nipple over top of my lace bra, sending vibrations throttling their way through me. I’m feeling it from multiple sensation points as he keeps moving, keeps circling, continues suckling.
While lost in sensation, my focus hones in on the detail of the ceiling of the bedroom in a house I spent a lot of time dreaming about, obsessing over. I gave up on this dream. I gave up pieces of myself for Adam.
I’m not materialistic, but Derek buying this for me for the reasons he detailed has my brain playing hopscotch. Because I’m dropping a rock on the sections of my brain that I don’t want to land on right now because those sections are pro-Derek. And I’m telling myself those parts of my mind have got to be slipping into insanity because everything he’s done, and all his convoluted logic is too dangerous to get caught up in.
Because I shouldn’t be okay with any of his deceit and manipulations, and I absolutely should not be forgiving with the threats of harming people I care about. And giving him any more than this – any more than what I have no choice but to give him – is me letting the ends justify the means. And the means are so very wrong.
