Kristen Ashley - Fire Inside

I ignored him and kept my rhythm slow, steady, taking him in, letting him feed me.

His hands gripped my hips. “Faster, Lanie.”

I dipped my head at a slant, ran my tongue along the side of his ’tache, feeling the bristle of stubble, loving the feel, continuing to ride him the way I wanted to take him inside of me.

When it was time, he would take over. I knew it. When he was done with me taking, he’d take over and give it to me.

I was right and I knew it was coming when he slid a hand up my spine, into my hair and he brought my mouth to his.

“Sorry, lady. Can’t take more,” he whispered then flipped me to my back, shoved his face in my neck and rode me, fast, his hips pounding, his hands gliding up the outside of my thighs. Fingers hooking behind my knees, he jerked them high and drove in deep.

A moan tore up my throat and his head came up, his eyes searing into mine.

“You want my thumb?” he asked.

I gave a slight shake of my head. “Just your cock.”

“You got it, baby,” he growled, thrusting hard, deep.

“Hop,” I breathed. It was building, burning high, feeding the need.

I pressed my legs to his sides, one of his hands moved to the side of my neck, curving around, gripping then down, curling around my breast. His thumb and forefinger closed on my nipple, squeezed then pulled and that was it. He filled me to bursting as I exploded.

My hips came up, my lips parted and Hop’s came to them, his eyes holding mine, his tongue gliding in my mouth as my orgasm burned through me.

The burn continued as his thumb and finger released my nipple but his hand stayed curled warm and claiming on my breast and his tongue moved out of my mouth to trace my lower lip.

“I love that,” I gasped.

“I know you do, baby. I do too,” he murmured against my mouth.

My hands slid up his back into his hair and, coming down, controlled by the beauty, I repeated, “Love that.”

“Me too, baby,” he grunted, powering in, powering deep, continuing to fill me, feed me, give me what I needed. “I’m there. Tighten, Lanie,” he growled his order and I gave him what he wanted, flexing around his cock. He shoved his face in my neck, buried himself deep and groaned against my skin.

I loved that too.

I kept my legs tight to his sides, sifted my fingers through his thick waves and waited.

Hop, not one to disappoint, ever, gave it to me. Back to front, he gave me the burn then the crash as his whiskers tickled me and his mouth moved on me.

I loved that too.

I closed my eyes, turned my head slightly and rested my lips against his ear, doing nothing but that, smelling him, feeling him, connected to him.

Still feeding the need. Like a junkie, powerless against the pull.

His lips trailed up to mine, his mouth took mine in a soft, long, wet kiss, then he slanted his head, kissed my jaw and slowly slid out. He rolled off, I rolled to my side, and he pulled the covers over me, shoving a pillow under my head, shifting my hair off my neck.

“Be back,” he muttered.

I slid my eyeballs up to him sitting on the side of the bed and nodded, then watched him walk to the bathroom.

He disappeared. I studied the fabulous décor of Hotel Monaco, which was just like all the pictures on their website said it was cracked up to be.

I did not think about relaxing with Hop in a hotel room that was supposed to be mine but he made ours.

I did not think about ending up making love with him in the bed in that room.

I didn’t think of anything.

He came out of the bathroom, turned out the lights, and slid in bed beside me.

Only after he arranged me pressed tight to his side and partially draped on his front, his arm tight around me, his other arm crossing his chest to sift through the side of my hair and along the length of my back, did I think about something.

“Hop, will you listen to me?” I whispered to his chest, a chest I was cuddling.

“Yeah, lady.”

“This has to end,” I told him honestly but insanely, considering I was cuddling him after having sex with him. “For me.”

His hand in my hair stilled before his body turned into mine, his hand going to the back of my head, cupping me there and pressing my face to his throat as his other arm held me close.

“This has to keep goin’,” he replied, both his hand and arm giving me a squeeze. “For you, lady.”

I closed my eyes tight and felt Hop’s lips come to the top of my hair.

“Got a monster to beat,” he murmured there.

I opened my eyes and admitted, “It lives in me, Hopper. I know it. It can’t be beat.”

His hand moved as his body shifted slightly and I found my cheek pressed to his chest.

In this position, held close to his long, hard, warm frame, I heard him whisper, “We’ll see.”

I closed my eyes again.

Kung pao shrimp.

I sighed.

Tomorrow, I’d plan.

My body, powerless against Hop’s pull, pressed closer.

Tonight…

Whatever.

Six days later…

I stood at the end of my bed staring at my packed suitcase that was ready for my trip to Vail. Except for closing it, I was all packed.

Sorted.

I looked to the clock on the nightstand.

I had thirty minutes until the limo arrived.

My parents were up in the air, fast approaching Denver International Airport. Soon, we’d be driving up to Vail, with Mom chattering at the same time fretting about getting to a liquor store.

And me…

Me…

I was screwed.

Suffice it to say that in the last six days, I had not formed a plan.

No, I had not.

Not even close.

* * *

Last Sunday, waking up at Hotel Monaco tangled with my fix, I partook of the high immediately. Or, more accurately, Hop woke up in the mood and wasted no time bringing the mood over me.

First thing in the morning sex led to cuddling, ordering room service, having a shower, watching TV, having more sex, ordering more room service, dozing, watching more TV, ordering more room service, having more sex and then falling asleep.

All with Hop.

I didn’t even protest.

I just went with the flow and essentially gorged myself on the drug that was Hop.

It was fantastic.

Monday morning we woke early, checked out, and Hop drove my car and me home. He kissed me at my front door and walked out, and I watched through the plantation shutters as he swung into the passenger seat of a black van driven by High.

They drove away.

I didn’t allow myself to think of anything but getting to work and taking advantage of being ahead of the game for once.

Mid-afternoon, Hop called me.

“Like I told you, babe, got the kids this week. Thought they had a gig tonight that meant they’d be home later so we could have dinner and do a little business. Their gig’s cancelled so they’ll be home after school. Can’t do dinner or business.”

This, I told myself, was a relief, but even as I told myself this I didn’t believe myself.

“Okay, Hop,” I said.

“I’ll come tomorrow, take you to lunch.”

Oh dear.

I had to come up with a plan to end things. Or, more accurately, buy time to create an elaborate plan that might actually work against the onslaught of all things Hopper Kincaid.

“I can’t,” I told him. “I have a lunch appointment tomorrow.”

This, fortunately, was true.

“Wednesday,” Hop immediately replied.

Damn. I didn’t have a lunch appointment on Wednesday and I needed a lot more time to create a plan that was so elaborate it might actually work.

“I work through lunch,” I informed him. It was lame but it was all I had.

“My old lady doesn’t work through lunch. She gets food in her belly and she does it eating with her old man. See you at noon.”

This was Hop’s response right before he hung up on me.

I stared at my phone for long moments before dialing him back.

Smartly, probably knowing why I was calling, Hop didn’t answer.

Gah!

Half an hour later, I received a call from a potential, huge client. They were having some issues with the creativity of their current agency drying up and they were shopping around for fresh ideas. They were giving a number of agencies a try including my agency as well as my old agency who had half-heartedly made efforts to undercut me at the same time made overtures for us to merge, something that was not going to happen. I liked being my own boss. I liked the freedom to create without someone breathing down my neck. And anyway, my offices were way cooler than their offices.

The potential client was a heavy hitter and had a massive advertising budget. It could mean big things that didn’t only include more money but possibly more clients. This approach was good. No, fabulous.

I wanted that action.

That was the good news. The bad news was, they wanted a pitch on Thursday which was nigh on impossible with the current workload even if I had come to work ahead of the game.

This meant that by Tuesday afternoon, when Hop called again, I’d worked until ten the night before and had my mind on our pitch, not on my plan to end things with Hop.

“How you doin’, lady?” he asked when I answered.

“Crazed, Hop. We have a potential new client and to build the pitch, keep up with other stuff and be able to take off Friday afternoon to meet my folks, I can’t do lunch tomorrow.” After I delivered this, I lowered my voice to finish, “I’m sorry.” And I did it actually being sorry.

Even though I didn’t want to, I had to admit, I missed my fix.

“That’s cool. I’ll bring sandwiches to your office.”

I stared at my desk blotter.

Why did I think I might get away with a valid excuse?

“Hop, seriously. It’s nuts around here.”

“Lanie, seriously, with your work, my kids and your parents here this weekend, my time seein’ you is curtailed in a way I don’t like a whole fuckin’ lot so I’ll bring sandwiches, you work, I’ll see you and it’ll all be good.”

“You’re distracting,” I snapped and this was met with silence. When that lengthened, I called, “Hop?”

“Nicest thing you’ve said to me,” he answered, a smile in his voice I felt in the region of my heart. “When I’m not fuckin’ you, that is,” he amended. “And outside you askin’ me if I wanted to fuck you and all the shit you said with that the first time you asked me to fuck you,” he went on.

I rolled my eyes to the ceiling.

“Right. Leavin’ you to get back to work after you tell me what kind of sandwich you like,” he stated.

I rolled my eyes to my computer. “This conversation could go on for four hours and you’d still be here with sandwiches at noon tomorrow, wouldn’t you?”

“Yep,” he replied, another smile in his voice.

Ty-Ty was not wrong. These boys rolled right on through even if you didn’t want them to. How I found this both irritating and attractive, I had no idea. I didn’t process that, either, except the irritating part.

“You do realize that’s kind of a jerky thing to do when you know I don’t have time to fight with you,” I pointed out.

“Yep,” he replied, still with a smile in his voice, which also meant no remorse.

“You don’t care, do you?” I asked to confirm his lack of remorse.

“Means I have lunch with you, look in your eyes, hear your voice, check you’re okay.” He paused then, “Nope.”

I sighed, liking that he wanted to look in my eyes, hear my voice, check I was okay.

God.

There it was. The reason I found his macho stubborn streak attractive.

“I like pastrami,” I told him.

“Got it,” he replied.

“And turkey. Or roast beef but only if it’s rare and only with swiss on it. Provolone if it’s pastrami. I also like Reubens but you need to tell them to go light on the sauerkraut if you take that route. I don’t like meatballs or anything that could be messy and get on my clothes, except for a Reuben, that is. No onions. My staff would be forced to smell them all day and that’s not nice. Chips, plain, nothing that could stain my fingers—like cheese puffs—or flamin’ hot. And a cookie or brownie wouldn’t go amiss.”

I stopped talking and was met with silence.

“Hop?” I called again.