Page 53 of The Liar's Reckoning

“Yes.”

He hisses when I take his slightly softened dick in my hand and pull at it. With my other hand I seek out one of his nipples, twisting it between my fingertips and plucking it hard. He’s a shaking mess, and I love to see it. Love the silence all around us. Love the light that makes him impossibly better looking and shows off all the stark contrasts of his face. The emerald eyes flecked with gold. The rosy cheeks and red, swollen lips. His dark stubble. That beauty mark on his right cheek I want to lick.

“I don’t have condoms,” he says.

“You’re lucky I’m a professional then.”

“You have stuff?” he asks, nearly incoherent.

“Of course. Fanny packs serve a purpose—they’re not just a fashion statement.”

He leans in, and his lips graze mine before I instinctively turn my head away. His mouth meets my cheek, and we share asimultaneous sigh. “If I’m gonna cheat on my wife…” he says, words trailing off but still leading.

“Lemme think about it,” I say.

“You either want to or you don’t.”

That’s not the issue. I have a bad feeling about kissing him. Like it’s a line that once I cross it, I won’t be able to come back from. Kissing Ben last night was nostalgic. Part of the routine of us. A memory. Kissing Graham would be?—

The only word that comes to mind is ruinous.

“I won’t fuck you if you won’t kiss me,” he says. A dare I have to admire him for.

“That’s how it’s gonna be?” I ask, letting go of his cock and pressing both palms to his pecs, kneading. “You sure about that?”

He manages to glare at me, but I don’t look away. I can’t tell if he’s bluffing. It could be he’s looking for an excuse to end this after the condom thing didn’t work out.

“Are you really in a position to negotiate?” he asks.

If he’s talking about the hard on pressing into his thigh, I can see why he might think he has the upper hand. I’m half dying for him to touch me, and I really do want to kiss him. Deep and hard and rough. I want to own him and make unholy sounds come out of him. I want him fucking praying for deliverance from me. But want like that is a double-edged sword. It could slice me into ribbons, too.

“I can negotiate in any position,” I tell him as I run my hands down his torso, swirling my thumbs through the softer hair on his lower abdomen.

“Not if I’ve got my tongue in your mouth,” he says. “Is that what you’re afraid of?”

Afraid? Is that what I am? He’s not a client anymore. But he’s not an option either. “Why would I do that to myself? You’re married. You’re a senator. You’re a fucking Republican…”

“Oh, is that what it’s about?” He smirks even though he’s got his pants around his ankles and his shirt around his wrists.

“What happens after today?” I ask.

“Why do you ask?”

“Are you trying to get me out of your system?”

“You textedme.”

He’s got me there. My hands slide around to his lower back, and I press our hips together, my raging erection against his flagging one. I grind shamelessly against him. “Because I think about you a lot. Too much.”

He puts his hands on my hips and lets out a soft sound of pure want. “I think about you, too.”

“Remember how you were that first time?” I ask. “So good.”

“Yeah?”

“You know you were. I told you.”

“I was paying you.” His hands slide over my ass and cup the cheeks.

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