Page 8 of The One Night Match
Why does she have to feel so perfect pressed against me?
If I were going to have one last hoorah, it could have at least been with someone I didn’t give a fuck about. That I felt nothing for.
Instead, this feels like a mistake I’m going to struggle to come back from.
She wraps her arms around my neck, dragging my face closer as I plant my hands on either side of her head.
I nip at her lower lip, dragging it between my teeth until her vibrant eyes pop open to look up at me. “You’re playing with fire, Kitten,” I murmur.
“Good thing I can handle a little heat,” she breathes, her body trembling slightly as she takes a moment to look around at the room. “Where are we?”
“My office,” I tell her truthfully. There are few people who know I own this place, and I can’t remember the last time I was even here.
“You work here?” Her brow furrows.
I shake my head. “No. I’m the owner.”
Her eyes flare with surprise, but nothing in her gaze changes, telling me she’s not like most of the women I’ve fucked here in the past.
There are people who will do anything to climb to the top of the social ladder, and sleeping with the owner of the hottest club in Seattle is one way to push yourself toward the top. The thing the women in the past didn’t quite understand was that I knew their game, and I had no interest in being used as a stepping stone.
I don’t get that vibe from this woman, though, and it’s almost as perplexing as the rest of her.
“So that’s your play then? Pick a girl up at the bar and fuck her over your desk?” She means it to sound sassy, but I don’t miss the flash of hurt in her eyes.
“No.” I dip my head to trail kisses down her delicate throat, trying desperately to stop myself from marking her. The possessive streak this stranger pulls out of me should scare me, but instead it’s thrilling. “I don’t fuck anyone in here.”
“Except me?”
“Except you.” The admission feels too big as it settles between us, but before either of us can question it, I drag thethin strap of her dress down her shoulder with my teeth, giving me more skin to work with.
She’s so fucking soft. Have women always been this silky, and I’ve just forgotten? Or is she just different?
“Tell me your name,” I demand.
“No.” She shakes her head. “No names.”
Before my mind begins to spiral, I crash my lips back to hers.
I’m more annoyed than I have a right to be that she won’t give me her name, but I get it. If she does happen to know who I am, she probably doesn’t want me to know she exists past a night of dirty fucking, and if she doesn’t, she’s already admitted I look like I kill people, so it could be self-preservation. Something I should definitely be practicing.
I dip my body slightly, tuck my hands beneath her perfect peach ass, and lift, bringing her up so our faces are level.
Her legs wrap around my waist instinctively, and we both let out a long groan as my cock settles between her perfect thighs.
Our kiss is filthy, filled with teeth and tongue, a battle for dominance as we grind on one another shamelessly.
Fuck. I can’t even remember the last time sex was like this, and we haven’t gotten to the good part yet.
For a long time, sex was just a means to an end for me. I had a few serious girlfriends in high school and my freshman year of college, but after that, I realized relationships were too much work, and I’d rather get my dick wet and get out of there.
I know that makes me an asshole, but believe me, it’s not the only thing.
I’m a grumpy bastard despite being barely thirty-one, but life as a Mafia boss will do that to you. It’ll chew you up and spit you out, making it hard to cling to the pieces of humanity that remain.
Her hips grind against mine frantically, and I can’t help but wonder if she’s going to come just by dry fucking. God, thatwould be hot as fuck, and I double my efforts in the hope of making it happen.
Why does this moment feel so reminiscent of the frantic groping as a desperate teen?
