Page 65 of Call Me Mrs. Taylor

Her need for control just reached its limit with me.

“Nowwho’s shutting down?” I say, tapping her hip. “What, you don’t like hard questions either?”

Her gaze sharpens. “I don’t like talking about my parents.”

“Why not?” I volley back.

Her lips twitch. Her hands ball into fists. For a brief second, she looks like she wants to steal on me, but then just as quick as it flared, her demeanor softens.

She rolls onto her back, stretching like a lazy cat, her bikini shifting just enough to expose more of her smooth, brown skin.

“As my man, you’re gonna have to learn how to read the room.”

There she goes claiming me again.

My eyes drop from her face to her nipples. Seeing them hard, I start to think maybe there really is something wrong with her. This woman is truly enjoying this. I don’t understand it. I’ve never seen anything like it.

It concerns me.

And excites me.

I let my gaze drift back up to her mouth, those full, smug lips, just begging to be kissed or bitten. “What does reading the room look like to you?”

She trails her fingers up the side of her breast, then plays with the thin strap of her bikini top, twisting it between her fingers. She’s playing nonchalant, but she’s just as tense as I am.

“It means knowing my moods,” she says, bringing her leg up to a ninety degree angle. She swings it back and forth in slow and steady arcs. Hypnotizing me. “Knowing when I wanna talk. When I need space. When I want you to fuck me. When I want you in my mouth.”

She smiles watching my dick rise in my trunks. “Little things like that.”

“Little things like that,” I repeat, exhaling sharply. My patience is paper thin right now.

“You know, that reading the room shit applies to you too.”

She raises an eyebrow.

“That means knowing that trying to distract me with pussy ain’t gon’ work every time.”

Her smile turns into a smirk. “So…only eighty percent of the time, then?”

Her free hand trails down her bare stomach until it reaches her bikini bottom. She inches a finger just beneath the band and stops, watching to see my reaction.

I don’t give her one.

I’m still pissed.

“You like to play games,” I say, my voice rough and low. “It lowkey feels like you want anopponentmore than you want a man.”

Her fingers still. “Why not both?”

“Cuz if you keep playin’ with me, somebody has to lose.”

Her hand is on my waistband now, toying with the elastic. The air between us is thick. Charged.

“So,” she says, her eyes locked on mine. “You’re finally ready to admit you heard me call you my man.”

I chuckle. “I heard you every time you said it.”

“I know what I want,” she says quickly.

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