Page 30 of Bull Rush

“Three.”

My face falls with disappointment, but I nod my agreement. He makes his way back to the living room, sitting back on the couch while I work to fill a plate with samples of cake. One hummingbird cake, one chocolate with ganache, one lemon, and one classic vanilla with a white chocolate raspberry swirl icing on top. Each is split into two bites for us. I grab a fork out of the drawer and follow him into the living room.

I sit down next to him, careful because I’m teetering on heels that are more than precarious on carpet, and then I stab a bite of cake and hold it up for him. His eyes meet mine, skepticism and a hint of confusion in them that I’m asking to feed him.

“Just take the bite,” I whisper, pushing the hummingbird cake to his lips.

He takes it gingerly, wiping a crumb from the corner of his mouth as he chews.

“That’s good. What is it?” he asks after he swallows.

“Hummingbird cake,” I explain. “Now the lemon.”

I hold it up for him, and he takes it, tilting his head back and forth like he’s considering it.

“Not bad. Lemon’s not my favorite though.” That much I knew. His favorite was apple. If I’d have been smart I would have asked for something with it. Then I could have brought him to his knees easily. I stab the chocolate piece as I live with that regret.

“Chocolate.” I hold it up for him, and he takes it, licking his lips as a bit of the frosting catches there.

“Fuck.” He closes his eyes for that one. “I don’t hate it.”

“I noticed.” I laugh at the way he reacts, and his eyes snap open, darkening when he realizes I’m amused at his expense. He reaches for the spare bite I’d cut for myself and holds it up to my lips.

“Try it. You’ll see,” he insists. So I take it, slowly, from his thumb and forefinger. The taste of rich chocolate floods my senses, and I nearly moan from how good it is. He’s slow to pull his hand away, and I grab his wrist and dart my tongue out to lick away the last of the chocolate ganache on the pads of his finger and thumb.

“Mmm.” I moan softly. “I think I get it.” I lift my lashes to look at him, and his eyes are burning into mine. They shutter a second later like he knows what I’m doing, and he’s not buying it.

“Good. It sounds like you have a winner then.” He leans forward to stand, and I put my hand to his chest.

“Wait! There’s one more.” I stab the white chocolate piece with my fork and hold it up.

“I said three. We did three.” His tone is short.

“I know, but I like this one. Please?” I plead with him.

He eyes me warily. I see his hand curl around the edge of the couch like he’s about to use the leverage to stand, and my heart skips. So I do what any normal ex-wife would do and climb into his lap.

“Please?” I ask again as I straddle him.

His eyes drift over me, and I can see the whirring thoughts written on his face, the war of emotions he’s having with himself over how best to control the situation. I bite the inside of my cheek, and I can see when he finally settles on something.

He slides down on the seat, and his hand digs into the flesh of my ass cheek, pulling me forward into his lap. His point is immediately taken when I feel how hard he is, and as he leans back on the couch, I have to squash the little noise that nearly escapes my lips.

“Off the fork.” He nods down at the cake, and I pull it off, putting the bite between my fingers and holding it out for him.

He takes the bite and chews slowly while I watch. My hand’s frozen in the air while I watch his jaw and his throat move around it. Every little motion holds my attention until I feel his tongue slide over the small web of skin between my thumb and forefinger. It drifts lower, dancing over the pulse point of my wrist, and I close my eyes, biting my lower lip and trying to remember why the hell I put myself in this position in the first place.

“Ask me to fuck you.” His voice has a graveled quality that makes it hard to say the next word. But I have to. I’ve pushed this way too far and let this get away from me, torturing myself as well as him.

“No.” I manage to say it clearly and firmlydespite how weak I’m feeling. I’m honestly proud of myself. I open my eyes again, realizing there’s a small smile on my lips when I see the scowl reflected on his. Mine fades as his deepens.

His hands go to the ends of the ribbon on either side of my panties, and he twists them around his fingers, looking up at me, his lashes low as he speaks.

“You keep telling me you’re not the girl I remember, and I believe you. I think you’re smarter, cleverer than you’ve ever been. So when you climb up here, pleading with me, and spreading these gorgeous thighs over my lap, I want you to remember that I’ve only just got out of prison after months of nothing but my hand and memories of how perfect my wife felt with her tight cunt gripping my cock and pleading for more of me. Ask yourself if that’s wise.” His tone is low and lethal, and he starts to pull on one of the ribbons.

“You wouldn’t dare,” I hiss.

“You’re right. I wouldn’t. I suppose I could just go down to the Libertine. You think Vic still works there?” There’s a conniving upturn of his lips. The Libertine is the local strip club, and Victoria was always obsessed with him. We went to school together, and it was like she’d made it her life’s mission in college to try to steal him away from me. Not that it ever worked.

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