Page 18 of Call Me Mrs. Taylor

I let my eyes drop to his mouth, then lower. I can never get enough of him in these suits.

“It seemed like you liked me, but then you didn’t call, so what should I make of that?”

“Make whatever you want, but don’t be driving past my fucking job, Raya. I’m serious.”

“Or what?” I gaze into his brown eyes and sense a weak spot. I can feel the moment his irritation shifts. His eyes darken. His breathing deepens.

I know this look.

He’s trying to convince himself that he’s mad, but his body is betraying him.

“What are you gonna do? Hm?” I step so close he has no choice but to inhale the scent of my perfume.

He blinks slowly, his arms uncrossing, dropping to his side. “Raya…”

“You gonna tie me up?” My voice lowers, smoothing into silk. “Slap me across the face with your dick? Wrap your hands around my throat and choke me?”

His Adam’s apple pulses violently as he swallows hard. “You wild.”

“You’re mad at me,” I say. “You wanted to fuck that night, and I said no.”

“Nah.”

“Yeah.” I reach out and graze the front of his pants, letting my fingers trace the outline of his burgeoning erection.

His body tenses. His eyes dart in every direction, but he doesn’t speak, and he doesn’t move. I step closer. My fingers work up and down, rubbing lightly. I love the way he hardens against them.

“It feels like you forgive me.”

His fingers encircle my wrist, squeezing to the point of pain. My lips part when I feel his vice grip, but no sound comes out.

“Nah,” he rasps. “It feels like you want this dick. If that’s the case, just say that.”

“That.”

His lips twitch into a smirk. I return the expression as he loosens his grip. He releases my wrist, but his fingers trail over my skin, slow and deliberate.

A shiver runs down my spine.

“Bring yo ass on,” he orders, and I have no choice but to obey.

I watched for so long, and now…oh my God, I feel like I’m dreaming. I’ve finally made it inside Ace’s condo!

Something about it feels comfortable. Maybe a littletoocomfortable. I let my guard down in here.

Maybe it’s the fact that it smells like him—clean, masculine, like cedar and something else beneath it. Or maybe it’s the way the light hits the walls. It makes everything look golden and warm, softening the edges of the space.

Or maybe it’s the fact that he fucked me so good, I forgot my own name.

I lay on his chest, my nails tracing lazy circles on his skin, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. This is exactly where I’m meant to be, and I know that by the limpness of my muscles and the quiet in my mind.

All is right in the world.

His hand rests on my lower back, his fingers drumming against my spine like he’s in deep thought.

I tilt my head up and stare at his handsome face, resisting the urge to ask him what he’s thinking. I learned from Ferris that men hate that. So instead, I say, “I bet I know what you’re thinking.”

His eyes open and focus on my face. There’s amusement there. Of course. Because men love games.

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