Page 72 of Brutal Obsession

“Grey,” she says, louder.

Damn it, I like it when she calls me that.

I slip my hand into the hole in the leggings, up to her panty line. I run my finger along it, over the damp fabric, and rub her clit over the barrier. It’s not nearly as satisfying, but she shifts her hips all the same.

“You’re a little slut for me,” I tell her. “No one else will give you this rush.”

“Fuck off,” she snaps breathlessly.

Nostop. I should’ve picked a more unique word for her. A safe word that won’t slip as easily from her lips.

But she hasn’t spoken it, even when I gave her the chance last night.

It solidifies a few things in my mind, but the main one is that shewantsthis. She’s a glutton. And I can keep pushing her until she breaks, or I do.

“Please,” she begs. “Jesus, just fucking touch me.”

I take in her pink cheeks, the heat that has flushed her exposed skin across her collarbones.

I look and watch and bring her right up to the edge of ecstasy, and then I withdraw.

It takes every last ounce of willpower to not rip her clothes off.

Instead, I shove the door open and lean back in the seat.

I tilt my head to the street. “Get ready for this interview and try not to look freshly fucked while you’re at it.”

She rears back.

I’m clearly in her way, and she waits a beat for me to move.

I don’t.

It seems to occur to her only seconds later, and she climbs over me. Her pert ass slides across my groin, and she lets out a hiss when she brushes my cock. I don’t move to touch her, still practicing that self-control. And then her feet are on the asphalt, and she must feel safe enough to turn back and look at me.

Her gaze drops to my lap.

“Anytime you want to take a ride, sweetheart,” I goad.

She narrows her eyes.

“You’ve got an hour.”

That makes pretty Violet pause. “To meet with that publicist?”

I check my watch. “Technically, we meet with her in forty minutes.”

“Why should I go with you?”

Oh, a test? I do love these. I pull my phone from my pocket and open the video of her breaking the NDA. Her anger comes off her in waves on my screen, palpable even from here. I let it play, enjoying the theater of it.

When it ends, I watch her. “If you don’t talk to me, then this goes to my father. Remember?”

“This is blackmail,” she says.

I smile. “Clock’s ticking, Vi.”

“You’re a controlling ass,” she murmurs, already heading back to her apartment.

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