Page 30 of Widow's Walk

I’m stiff against him, but I keep my face relaxed. He stares at me, and I brace myself when he raises a hand. I swallow, and his fingers make a gentle trail down the side of my face and neck.

The car stops again. “Out.” One singular word, low but audible, and the two men up front exit the vehicle without a glance back.

The doors seal shut, and we’re surrounded in silence.

Okay, breathe. Get your shit together, bitch. When it comes to seduction, you got this.

I’m bold and make the first move. I use his shoulders to steady myself as I swivel in his lap so that my knees are on either side of his hips, straddling him. My skirt naturally hitches itself up. We’re both wearing that knowing smirk.

“Are you going to fuck me or what?” I say lightly, even though I’m about to come undone. From desire or trepidation, or a bit of both.

His hands slide onto my thighs, his calloused skin against the smoothness of mine. A titillating contrast. I get comfortable, slinging my arms over his shoulders. Our faces so close, exchanging a breath.

My pussy pulsates when his hands begin inching up my legs, disappearing under the silky fabric of my skirt. The muscles in my core jump when he makes contact, but I keep a straight face.

His eyes skitter all over as his thumb begins to make languid, small circles. Our heads gravitate, creeping closer. I don’t know who makes the first move this time, but our mouths suddenly fuse, and his efforts with his hand double. Rubbing my pussy, making my hips rock on reflex. Our tongues wrestle and our bodies come together.

A moan spills from me, and I can’t take it anymore. But before I can shove his hand away to tear his cock out and impale myself, he sinks two fingers inside of me, curling them. My hands fist the back of the seat, nails stabbing into the leather. My muscles freeze up, and my mouth goes slack, but he doesn’t stop his tongue from lavishing every inch of it.

My forehead bumps into his, and I squeeze my eyes shut from the onslaught of ecstasy. A silent scream flows out, bleeding into his tongue, and I convulse on his hand.

I’m dazed and confused when I begin to descend, and shame paints my cheeks. I don’t give him the chance to catch it, though. I go for his belt with shaky fingers, but I manage to get the task done.

I have his cock out and I point it up and sit down on it. As soon as my ass meets his lap, he grabs me by the back of my hair and crushes my mouth with his. I let his bodily responses decide on the pace. When he grunts, it’s frustration, so I go faster. When he wilts and his kisses turn sloppy, I slow it down. I’m not ready for it to end just yet.

It’s not until our skin becomes slick, and the air turns too thick to breathe in, that I take us both to the peak. I hit mine first, and he grabs hold of my ass to slap me up and down on him when I no longer can until I feel his cock swell and thump inside of me, and he goes still.

It was only our second time fucking, but somehow, we’re so in sync, it feels like we’ve already done this hundreds of times before.

Yet it’s still mind-blowing.

Chapter twelve

Blackwell

Ibring my finger to my upper lip to feign an itch just to catch another whiff of Sinclair.

The wicked sweetness of her.

We walk through the private entrance of the casino, and she strolls beside me as if she didn’t just wreck me in the backseat only minutes ago.

I was buried inside her, spiraling into madness, and somehow, it’s not enough. It’s never enough.

My fingers flex at my sides, dying to touch her. To drag her off somewhere dark and private to lose myself all over her body again. No woman has ever done this to me. To have me starving for more when I’ve just been so thoroughly satiated.

But here I am, hungering for her. Still haunted by the way she feels clenching around me. The way her mouth steals my breath. The way I feel bereft when I’m not rooted inside her.

When we walk out to the main room, I spot the women of the men I’m here to meet, clustered with cocktails in one of the private lounges.

“I need to meet with them privately,” I tell her low under my breath. “You can join later. I’ll introduce you.”

“No, thank you,” she quips, mischief in her tone. “I’d rather spend your money on playing Blackjack.”

Before giving me the chance to argue, she’s already walking away, hips swaying in deliberate, taunting arcs. Knowing her reclusive behavior, I assumed she wouldn’t want to socialize. Not after a life of being ordered to smile at whom and forced to consort with a revised list of debs.

I wipe the stupid smirk off my face and head to the private room where I’m expected. This deal is critical and high stakes. And I am to conduct it without my father.

My father’s absence speaks volumes. He told me about his heart condition weeks ago, downplaying it with his usual professionalism. Sometimes forgetting that I’m not only a business partner or employee. I’m his son. His family. I deserve more than diluted truths. And the fact that he let my mother intervene and insist he stay home tonight confirms the actual severity of it. It isn’t just stress. It’s far more serious than he’s letting on.

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