Page 92 of Racing for Redemption
The elevator ride to my floor is silent torture. I'm wary of cameras, so I don't move an inch. I count heartbeats, seconds, floors. When the doors open, I step out deliberately, not looking back to see if he follows.
He does. His footsteps are quiet behind me as I approach my door, fumble with the keycard, and push it open. Only when I hear the soft click of it closing do I turn and let my shoulders relax.
William stands just inside, taking in my hotel room—larger than standard accommodations, with a sitting area where I’ve been working, and a king-size bed at the center. His gaze catalogs everything before returning to me.
I’ve already shrugged off my suit jacket, tossed it over a chair. The air between us is charged with an electric tension, as if every breath we take is thick with words we've been keeping from each other for weeks, and unfulfilled desires. My heart races at the subtle dilation of his pupils, the slight clenching of his jaw, and awarm flush spreads across my cheeks, betraying the intensity of my own yearning.
“Just to get it out of our systems, okay?” I say, needing the boundary even as I prepare to cross lines.
He nods once, eyes never leaving mine. “Okay.”
I cross the room in three strides, place my hands on his chest, and shove him backward onto the bed. He goes willingly, a smile playing at his lips as I climb over him, straddling his hips.
“Been thinking about this,” he murmurs as I lean down, my hair creating a curtain around our faces. “About you.”
“Shut up,” I breathe, and then I’m kissing him.
His lips are soft but insistent, opening under mine, the kiss languid and gentle. He grips my hips, pulling me closer against him. He hardens beneath me, and it sends a rush of power through my veins.
I kiss him again and again, each one deeper than the last. I explore his torso, slowly caressing him. He’s compact but strong, all lean muscle and heat. I trace his neck, thick and corded with tension, and he moans into my mouth.
He quickly finds the buttons of my blouse, working them open with surprising dexterity. I pull back, breathing hard.
“Sit up,” I command.
He does, immediately, and I tug at his shirt. He helps me pull it over his head, revealing more of his tattoos—intricate designs that flow over his shoulders, down his arms, and one on his neck. I trace a big piece on his bicep with my fingertip, following itspath across his skin. He leans against the headboard, his gaze soft as he looks at me.
“You like tattoos?” he asks, voice rough.
“I do.”Especially yours—yet, I don't say it.
He reaches for me again, sliding his hands up my sides to the edge of my bra. His touch is teasing, questioning. I respond by grinding down against him, feeling his erection straining against his jeans.
His sharp inhale is music to my ears. He tightens his grip on my waist.
“Fuck, Violet.”
“That’s the idea,” I say, and I’m shocked by my own boldness, my own hunger.
I reach between us, find his belt, unbuckle it with quick, practiced movements. The button of his jeans next, then the zipper. He watches me, eyes hooded, lips parted, breathing ragged.
“Be a good boy,” I tell him, “and enjoy the ride.”
A flash of teeth as he grins. “Yes, boss.” Then, lower, “But don’t think I’m always this accommodating.” He trails his hands along my neck and down my lower back, eventually cupping my ass. "I also like control."
I slip my hand into his boxers, wrapping my fingers around him. He’s hot and hard and perfect. Forget about those guys in romance novels that are massive. William's cock is the right size, nothing exaggerated—just like his height—and I absolutely love it. I explore him slowly, base to tip, learning what makeshis breath hitch, what makes his eyes close. His eyes closing as pleasure runs through him does things to me.
His arms come around me, holding me close as I work him. I feel the moment his control slips, the way his body tenses, the way his breathing changes.
“Violet—” he warns, but I don’t stop.
He comes with a strangled moan, as he buries his face in my neck, his arms tight around me. The wet heat of his release, the pulsing of him against my palm, sends a shock of satisfaction through me.
After a moment, he laughs—a breathless, wonder-filled sound.
“That wasnothow I pictured this going,” he admits, looking down at the mess in his boxers.
“No?” I can’t help but smile, feeling satisfied, wanted, and alive.
