Page 28 of Devil In A Suit

“If—if you come any closer, I will hit you,” she threatens, her voice shaking. Her warning charms me. She is so small, barely reaching my shoulder, yet she talks like she has weapons of mass destruction strapped to her waist.

More than anything, I need to feel her waist. To feel just how small it is in my grasp, and to feel the warmth radiating from her. But I don’t touch her. Not yet. I move just close enough that my scent and my presence envelop her completely.

She shuts her eyes, and I know she feels it too. The electric pull between us is more than enough to set the entire room ablaze. I lean in, intending to breathe her in, and I am instantly hit with that whiff of her perfume. It’s cheap, basic, but on her, it is a potent aphrodisiac—like savoring aged fine whiskey, the kind you remember years later.

I feel her movement before I see it, and my eyes open just in time to catch her hand coming for my face. I seize her wrist, gripping it firmly. Her wrist is tiny, nearly disappearing in my grip, and the softness of her skin contrasts sharply with the force she tries to exert.

“Really?” I ask, my tone mocking. “You’ve decided to add a lawsuit for assault to what you already owe me?”

I let go of her hand and she raises it again, but this time I deliberately don’t stop her. I feel the sting across my cheek. She doesn’t move. She waits, fierce eyes locked on me. She knows she has crossed the line and she doesn’t care. The audacity. It’s an incredible turn-on, an irresistible challenge. Blind lust rages inside me. Like a fire. It’s uncontrollable.

Taking a deep breath, I shut my eyes and school my features. She mustn’t know how little control I have when I am around her. How much power she holds over me. Only when I have wiped all expression from my face do I open my eyes to look at her again.

My tone is so cold and steely she would never for an instant suspect or even believe that what I really want to do is throw her on the filthy table behind me and fuck her until she screams. “I think,” I inform her. “You are mistaken about the kind of manI am. I want you, but not that badly. Not enough to tolerate disrespect.”

She glares at me, but I’ve seen this look too many times in the eyes of too many people not to recognize it. The glint of fear. She cannot hide it, no matter how hard she tries to mask it with bravado.

Still, she responds, and my interest is sparked once again despite myself. “Well then stop freaking calling me ‘sweetheart. My name is Lara, but you can call me Miss Fitzpatrick.”

I stare into her eyes, my gaze unyielding. “Do you know why I’m so adamant about having you?” I ask.

Her brows furrow at the question, and I see the confusion flash in her eyes.

"It’s because I trust myself. All my life, I have believed in myself—had faith in my desires and trusted my instincts. I have pursued them relentlessly and that is why I am where I am today. When you caught my eye in such a spectacular way, I knew there was something different about you.”

“Then you should have expected the slap?—”

“Shut the fuck up,” I growl, my hand slipping around the back of her milky neck. I cannot control my fingers, they have taken on a life of their own, they caress her soft skin. I feel my breath catch.

“And now you want to kill me,” she hisses, working up a sneer, and I think I fall in love with her fight right there. She is so flushed with anger, so gorgeous, her eyes burning with pointless defiance.

“Let’s play a game,” I say. “In order to move forward with this conversation you can choose one of two things to do to appease me. It has to be one or the other, or I will end all possibilities for negotiations with you. I’ll sell your father’s miserable debt on and you’ll never hear from me again.”

“I choose not to play this game,” she bites out, her voice sharp. Once again, I am pleased.

“Why the haste, sweetheart?” I ask. “Shouldn’t you hear what I have to say first? I guarantee they are interesting options—perhaps you’ll even want both and not know which to choose.”

She looks at me skeptically, but she’s listening. What other choice does she have?

“A).” I start as my eyes trace her delectably angry features. Her huge eyes, her long lashes, and the slight dusting of freckles across her nose that have become more visible under the harsh lighting of the room.

“You get on your knees right now and suck me off,” I say.

All the color drains from her face. It’s fascinating to watch, and I almost smile, but I manage to hold back. “This is payback for thinking you can just hit me like I’m nothing.”

I can almost feel the chill running through her entire body. It is clear she has never slapped anybody in her life. Only me. Because I drove her mad.

“Ask me what the second option is,” I murmur, holding her shocked gaze.

She trembles despite her attempt to mask it. “What’s the second option?” Her voice quivers, but there is still some defiance there. She is a natural-born fighter, but I always knew that.

I lean in even closer, ensuring she feels every bit of my presence. “I’m sorry, what did you say? I couldn’t quite hear you.”

Her eyes flash. “What is the second option?” she repeats, louder and more ferociously.

“That’s more like it. You sound so adorable when you’re compliant.” I move my hand from the back of her neck, brushing it down her skin upwards towards her face. She flinches, of course, but I know it’s just a show. She’s always so fuckingdramatic. “The second option,” I tell her as my thumb presses against her full bottom lip, feeling its softness. For a moment, I’m tempted to taste it, but I restrain myself. For legal purposes—both now and in the future—it’s better that she chooses what I do to her.

“The second option is… I want you to spill into my hands.”

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