Page 34 of Dirty As Puck
You’re a mess, Rochelle. A big one.
10
I can feel her eyes on me even as I look away to gain control over myself. The fluorescent lights in the conference room do nothing to dim the tension pulsing between us.
Rochelle Winters, damn it. She’s standing just a few feet away, posture casual, arms crossed loosely over her chest, but there’s nothing casual about the way she’s watching me. Every glance, every tilt of her head, is a challenge. And I can’t stop myself from wanting to accept it.
“Ask me what you really want to know,” I say, voice low, deliberate. I take a half-step closer, and she doesn’t flinch. She shouldn’t, not that she ever does. Yet, I can tell she feels every inch of the tension in this room like I do.
Her lips twitch, just barely, like she’s holding something back. And that’s exactly what drives me insane. Every fiber ofme wants to cross this line we’ve been dancing around for weeks. Her questions, her presence, the way she shifts slightly when I move, it’s infuriating. She’s infuriating. And somehow, impossibly, she’s irresistible. I’ve come to learn in just a few weeks that she’s a dangerous combination of what I want so badly and what I detest.
I swallow back a growl, forcing myself to think. It’s not just about the story anymore or whatever narrative of me she’s after. The story has been dead for a while. Every glance at her, every deliberate tug at her lip, every tilt of her chin, it’s about her. About wanting her. Wanting her so badly I can feel the ache in my chest.
Sucking in my breath, I take another step forward, closing the last inches of space between us. She meets my gaze, unwavering, and I can see the same fire in her eyes that I feel burning in my veins. She pushes buttons I didn’t know I had. A flicker of annoyance? Sure. But mostly, it’s pure, dangerous anticipation. I want her so badly that I can’t think of anything else. I want to devour her. Taste every inch of her, leave no part untouched.
Her voice is quiet, almost a whisper, but it cuts straight through me. “What I want to know… isn’t for the article.”
God, she says it like it’s nothing, but I feel it like a punch to my gut. She doesn’t have to spell it out. I know. She’s leaning in, just enough that I can feel the faint brush of her perfume, a heady mix of citrus and something warmer I can’t name. Every instinct in me screams to close every inch and distance, to reach out and claim her, to stop pretending that we can behave like this is just professional.
And yet, we do it anyway. We hover on the edge, circling each other like predators, each step deliberate. I let my hand brush hers, casual, almost accidental, but not really. I can feel her pulsejump under my fingertips. I can see her trying not to react, trying to maintain control.
But she fails, and I’m not surprised. She always fails at acting unaffected.
I lean in slightly, letting my fingers drift along the curve of her waist. I don’t need to speak because she knows exactly what I’m doing. Her breath catches, a subtle hitch that makes my chest tighten. The little shift in her stance, the way she presses just a fraction closer even as her hands stay at her sides is enough for me. Actually, it’s everything.
The heat between us is insane, almost tangible, like the air itself is charged with electricity. I can feel the pull, the irresistible tug that has been building since day one. Every time I look at her, every time she dares to lock eyes with me, I lose a little more of myself. And I like it. I should hate it, I want to hate it, but I like it way too much for my own good.
Her gaze drops for a fraction of a second when my fingers trace just a bit higher along her hip, and I catch it. My fingers trace the waistband of her pants, causing her to let out a soft, almost inaudible gasp.
Every flicker of uncertainty, every almost imperceptible shiver. It makes me want her more. I want to make her feel every ounce of what she makes me feel. I want to make her tremble not because she’s afraid of me, but because she can’t resist me.
I pull back just enough to see her face fully, to measure her reaction, to enjoy the way she struggles to appear unaffected. She’s staring right into my eyes now, her lips parted slightly, in a way that tells me she wants this so much.
“I wanted to hate you,” I whisper into her ear. “But I can’t ignore this anymore. Now, tell me to stop, Winters.” It’s a challenge, a dare to see how much control she still has over herself right now.
With one palm, I slightly part her thighs, without taking my eyes off her face.
“Don’t stop,” she whispers, sounding breathless.
So, I don’t. Not yet at least. I brush a strand of hair from her shoulder, letting my palm linger a second too long, watching her swallow, watching her chest rise and fall in a rhythm that sends blood rushing to my dick.
I can smell her now, the faint trace of shampoo, the warmth of her skin so close, it makes me want to crush the space between us completely.
She leans in slightly, just enough that our faces are closer than they should be, closer than I should allow. I can feel her exhale, subtle, hot on my face, and I know she’s aware of every touch, every flick of my fingers along her side, and the occasional sliding of my hands between her parted thighs. We’re both holding back, circling, waiting for the other to make the next move.
I glance at her lips. God, I want to taste them. I want to feel the warmth of her tongue and drink in every fill of her.
Instead, I let my fingers linger a heartbeat longer along her waist and then slowly retreat, just enough to keep the tension unbearable. She doesn’t move away. It’s obvious that she can’t. She’s too good at reading me. Too good at teasing me. Too good at destroying every ounce of my self-control.
And neither of us can deny the chokehold we have on each other.
The air between us is saturated, almost burning. Every glance, every breath, every inch of proximity is loaded with something neither of us can ignore. I know the next second could be the one we cross the line, and yet I don’t move. Not yet.
I let her see the desire in my eyes. Let her feel it in the brush of my fingers. Because this is just the beginning. The anticipation. With the way she’s staring at me with pure hunger in her eyes, I know I have her hooked, just like she has me.
The second I feel her warm breath against my lips, the last thread of restraint snaps.
I don’t stop to think of anything else. I move.
