J. Kenner - Heated

“Tyler.” His name felt ripped out of me, and so help me, I wanted him to keep pushing, to spread my legs wide and to finally touch me and release this sweet, relentless pressure.

“So I think you’re going to stay,” he continued, almost conversationally. “I could be wrong. It happens on occasion. You might storm out of here and never look back. You might slap my face and tell me to go to hell. It is within the realm of possibility.”

“I might,” I said. I sure as hell should.

But I knew that I wouldn’t.

He turned, and without another word stepped out of my line of sight and into the foyer. I sat there, my heart pounding. My skin tingling. I was aware of every tiny hair on my body, as if I’d gotten lost in an electrical storm. Tiny beads of perspiration rose on the back of my neck. I wanted to bolt—and yet I wanted to stay.

I told myself it was because of the op—because I had to get close to the man, and how the hell could I do that if I walked out on him? But that wasn’t true.

I wanted to stay because he wanted me to. Because I’d seen the promise in his eyes of what was still to come.

And because, god help me, he was right—I wanted to bend the rules.

He came back into the room, just steps ahead of a waiter in a trim, black uniform who stumbled a bit before making a surprised little noise, then continuing on. I’m sure I made quite the picture, naked on the couch, my face turned toward the entrance, my hands on the cushions and my breasts exposed.

I didn’t slouch, though I wanted to. I had too much pride. But neither did I look at the waiter. For the first time since I’d graduated from the academy, I purposefully didn’t look at a face. Instead, my attention was entirely on Tyler—and his was entirely on me. I saw heat in his face. Heat and passion and possessiveness.

Raw desire burned in his eyes, and in that singular moment, I knew that I held the power. That I’d turned him on, wound him up. Not because I was naked and on display, but because I was naked and on display because he wanted me to be.

And that desire—that primal, sensual hunger—cut through me as well. I felt warm, alive with a feminine power. I wanted to be touched. To be claimed by the one man who had brought me to this point, to this sharp apex of desire.

Tyler.

As if he could hear my thoughts, the corner of his mouth lifted ever so slightly, like a subtle promise of things to come.

Blood pounded in my ears and I barely breathed as the waiter hurriedly parked the cart and converted it to a small table. I heard the rattle of dishes, and then the distinct pop of a champagne cork.

Then Tyler was signing the check, and the waiter was gone, moving like a streak toward the door. The moment I heard the click, I gulped in air, then watched as Tyler’s coolly composed expression softened a bit. “You see? There’s a thrill in being naughty—no, don’t say anything. I can see the truth on your face. And you gave him a bit of a thrill, too, I think. If nothing else, he has a story he’ll be telling his buddies into his old age.”

“I hope you tipped him well,” I said, surprised I could form words, much less conjure sarcasm.

“I think you were the best tip. But yes. I upped the standard gratuity considerably.”

I started to stand, but he gestured for me to stay seated, and I was glad that he did. As juiced as I was, I couldn’t be certain that my legs would support me.

“You did well.” He’d moved to the cart and now he took a bottle of champagne from its bucket. He poured a glass, then brought it and a small plate toward me. There was a coffee table directly in front of me, and he used his foot to push it to one side, then placed the drink and the plate on it. The plate, I saw, held a selection of chocolate truffles.

I glanced up at him, and he met my questioning look with a smile. “Time for your reward. Tell me, Sloane, what do you want?”

You. Oh, god, only you. The words seemed to press against my lips, begging for release. But I bit them back, perhaps foolishly wanting to keep some piece of me hidden despite sitting naked before him.

Slowly, purposefully, I glanced at the coffee table. “I’m very fond of chocolate.”

“Is that so?” He plucked up a round truffle, gleaming with a shell of dark chocolate and topped with a tiny star of white icing. “Whatever the lady wants.”

He knelt in front of me, one hand resting on my knee as he leaned forward and trailed the truffle gently over my lower lip.

“Open for me,” he said, and as I slowly opened my mouth, he gently spread my legs. Cool air swept between my thighs, teasing my overheated skin and making me even more aware of how wet I already was.

I whimpered, but the sound was muffled by the candy. “That’s a girl,” he said, as he eased the truffle into my mouth. “Now bite down.” I did, then moaned in surprise and pleasure as sweet cherry juice eased over my tongue, a stray bit catching at the corner of my mouth.

As I swallowed my half of the truffle, he took the rest and slid it over his own lips, his gaze never leaving mine as he swallowed. I saw it there—that storm in his eyes. A tempest of fire and need that would surely capsize me, send me reeling. I wanted it to. I so desperately wanted his touch, his kiss. His everything.

“Delicious,” he said, and the sensuality in that single word had my body clenching. It took everything inside me not to yank him close and beg him to please, please just fuck me because nothing else could douse this building heat and bank the fire that was threatening to turn me to ash.

“But this,” he said, as he used the tip of his finger to dab at the stray juice on my mouth, “this is even more delicious.”

I swallowed, anticipating the pleasure of watching him slide his own finger into his mouth and then sucking the juice off. Or, perhaps he would surprise me and slide that finger into my mouth, and I could curve my lips around his finger and lose myself in the cherry-coated taste of him.

That, however, wasn’t what he had in mind.

Instead of pressing his finger to my mouth, he brought it to my clit, sliding his hand down between my parted thighs. I gasped as thought abandoned me.

And then, as he slowly—so devilishly slowly—teased and played, all rationality and reason escaped me as well. I was nothing but sensation. A human-sized collection of atoms that existed solely to shimmy and buzz in pleasure.

Then he pulled away. I whimpered, desperate for him to finish what he’d begun.

“Shhh,” he murmured, as he placed his hands on my hips to keep me from writhing in silent demand.

“Tyler—” My voice was raw, ripped from me. “Don’t. Let me—”

“Hush,” he said again, keeping me motionless. Worse, keeping me unsatisfied. “I think there’s a bit of cherry juice in a very sweet spot.” His eyes flicked up to mine, hot and hungry, and my sex clenched in anticipation of what was coming. “And I want just a little taste.”

Yes, yes, oh sweet Jesus, yes.

As if he purposefully set out to torment me, he trailed kisses up the inside of my thigh, driving me just a little wild. I wanted to writhe, to twist my body in time with the sensations that were pounding through me, but he held me fast. I couldn’t move. And somehow my immobility made the pleasure that much keener.

With the tip of his tongue, he teased the soft skin at the juncture of my thighs. I drew in a shuddered breath and arched back, trying to breathe as sparks of pleasure shot over my body, so delicious and yet at the same time not enough. I wanted the explosion.

“Please,” I begged, then cried out in triumph when he shifted his attention to my clit, his tongue finding that most sensitive part of me. His tongue laved me, teased me, and my body trembled with the pressure of a building explosion that never quite seemed to come.

I arched my back, my eyes squeezed tight, as if by sheer force of will I could make myself go over. I was close, so damn close …

“Tyler,” I murmured. “Tyler, please …”

Gently, he pulled back, then tilted his head to look up at me as I fought back a cry of protest. “As I said, delicious.” He leaned over and picked up the glass of champagne. “Drink,” he said, and I gratefully took the glass, gulping down a swallow of the cool liquid that was painfully insufficient to quell the heat that raged inside me.

“Save a bit for me,” he said, then gently took the glass from me. He sipped too, then used his hands to ease my thighs wider than before—thank god—and then lowering his mouth to my sex once again.

I’d expected the pleasure. I hadn’t expected the mind-blowing delight that came from the combination of his hot mouth, clever tongue, and the cool, sparkling champagne. The bubbles fizzed against my already sensitive clit, the sensation almost too much to bear. A million little pops and trills, all promising something bigger, something wilder and hotter.

And yet none of them were quite enough to take me there. I needed his touch, his tongue. Needed it right there, but though I shamelessly shifted my hips, he never quite stayed on the sweet spot long enough to take me that final distance.

“Please,” I begged.

But he wasn’t interested in my demands. Instead, he shifted his attention, trailing kisses along my trimmed line of pubic hair, then up to tease my navel with his tongue.

Every touch was erotic, sending heat swirling through me. But it wasn’t the heat I wanted but the explosion, and as I moaned in both pleasure and protest his mouth closed hard over my breast and his teeth teased my erect nipple.

“You’re tormenting me,” I whispered, when his hand slipped between my thighs. I gasped as he slid a finger inside me, then stroked me in long, slow movements designed to let the pleasure build and build—but never quite reach the pinnacle. “You bastard,” I moaned. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

“Clever girl.” He cupped his hands over my breasts, then brought his mouth to my neck. His kisses along my neck were a different kind of torture, and I instinctively tilted my head to one side. “But is it really torment?” he murmured, his lips brushing my skin with each soft word, and sending shockwaves rippling through me. “Or is it heightened pleasure borne from anticipating what’s yet to come?”

“Torment,” I said firmly, making him laugh. “And here I was starting to think you were a nice man. You’re not.”

He eased back so that I could see his face. Desire and heat and a feral ruthlessness that cut straight through me. “You’re right,” he said. “I’m not.”

While I worked hard to keep myself from whimpering, Tyler rose to his feet. He held out his hand, and I took it with both curiosity and anticipation. I hoped he was leading me to the bedroom; I hoped he intended to finish what he’d started. I feared that he had something else in mind, though—and, damn the man, I couldn’t help that sizzle in my blood that came from the mixture of curiosity and, yes, anticipation.

Without a word, he led me into a short hallway, then through yet another formal room.

To be honest, I was swimming in such a sensual haze, it’s a wonder I noticed anything at all. But small things jumped out at me. The paintings. The molding. There were antiques tucked into every corner, yet the room still looked elegant, not cluttered.

We moved down yet another hall, and I entertained the insane idea that all he was really doing was walking me in a circle. More torment. More anticipation.

When I said as much, he laughed. “I’m not that cruel. The place is just huge. You could get lost in it. I do sometimes.”

“Really?”

“No, but it makes a good story.”

“Is that what you do? Make up stories when the truth isn’t good enough?”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Absolutely.”

“Well,” I said. “That’s a conundrum.”

“What is?”

“You’re being honest about being dishonest.”

“Maybe I’m just trying to keep you interested,” he said, a hint of heat returning to his voice.

I didn’t quite meet his eyes. “I don’t think you have a thing to worry about there.”

We’d reached the open door to the master bedroom, and I was surprised to see the contrast between its interior and the rest of the penthouse. This room contained the modern furniture that Tyler had said he preferred. Sleek lines that accentuated function over form, but nonetheless suggested money and taste.

Interesting. It told me that he was a man who was willing to compromise—but not on the things that were personal and important to him.