Page 77 of Ruled By Rivalry

I could feel it. Pressing against the inside of my thigh, heat pooling between my legs, and an ache in my core that hurt, too.

“I want you.” So badly, I barely managed to get the words out.

His hips drove against mine, the feel of his cock so unexpected, I groaned. He sucked and nibbled the skin below my ear, tried to drown his own sounds out by cursing them into my skin. Unsuccessfully.

“Fuck,” he said. “You keep saying the wrong things. I came here to talk to you. To explain. Not—”

It felt like the right thing to do, reaching for his crotch; feeling him in the palm of my hand, twitching at the touch. “I think that just means I’m saying the right things.”

“You’re killing me” was all he retorted.

His kisses traveled down my chest, stomach, hips. His hands followed, grazing my nipples, scraping my shorts down my legs until they hung at my ankles, and a single kick made them land on the floor.

My eyes closed, but I could still see the scene clearly in my head. The way he kissed up my inner thigh, played with the seam of my panties until finally—finally—pressing a single kiss against my core.

I shuddered at the touch. He groaned into the fabric. “You’re so sensitive,” he mumbled, not intended for my ears. But I was so aware of everything he was doing, saying, and feeling, that nothing he did could escape me.

A single finger slid from my hips all the way between my legs, up and down my folds once. He muttered a string of appreciation against me that ended in “I can’t believe you’re this wet for me.”

“Me neither.” But my laugh turned into a moan. Feeling his breath against me, his finger teasing, barely touching.

“Can I?”

Thank God his question finally made me open my eyes again, or I might’ve missed the way he looked up at me. Like he was asking for a million dollars, not whether he could touch me. Like the possibility of me saying no was a real one at all.

It wasn’t.

“Please,” I said, and he complied.

My head fell back again, my eyes closed, and all I could hear and see and feel was Elliot. Moaning against my core, his tongue against my clit, his hands pushing my hips into the mattress. His finger teasing my entrance, never fully pushing inside of me, always just pretending to.

Sorry, Satisfyer Pro 2. I’ll never be able to go back to you after this.

My hips tried to buck, but he held them in place with one hand. The next time I opened my eyes, his other hand was busy with himself.

I would’ve loved to offer my support, but I was in no condition to say anything, never mind sit up and take initiative. It took enough effort to stay still below his touch.

No matter how good this—he—felt, though, my orgasm was unexpected. As unexpected as his finger finally, gently, slowly slipping inside of me, then adjusting to the rhythm of his tongue. Deliciously slow, feverishly hot, and so good, I came without being able to give him a heads-up. He interpreted my body perfectly regardless. Like it was speaking a language invented just for him to understand.

Something still coiled in the pit of my stomach when his face popped into my field of vision. Proud smile on his lips.

“You are spectacular, Maeve Peterson. Absolutely spectacular.”

And it was the last thing I heard before drifting off to sleep. Content, satisfied, happy.

Chapter 30

Waking up without an alarm wasn’t any cause for concern; I usually managed to get out of bed before it even rang. I usually didn’t fall asleep past midnight and post–oral sex, though. My body may have needed a little more rest.

So what? It was a Saturday, and after the week I’d had, I deserved a lazy morning.

I peacefully drifted out of sleep, stretching and turning before I could identify the nagging feeling somewhere in the back of my mind telling me the amount of rest I’d gotten was . . . suspicious.

Oh my God.

I sat up, scrambled off the covers halfheartedly thrown across my body, and reached for my phone. The text messages from an unknown number managed to catch my attention before the time could.

UNKNOWN, three hours ago