Play Me (17 page)

“Fuck me.”

I freeze in my tracks. “What did you say?”

“I want you to fuck me. Right now. Please.”

Ethan rockets up from his chair, shoots me a look that is half-amused, half-concerned. “I will take that as my cue to leave.”

The fact that Aria doesn't even glance his way tells me all I need to know about her state of mind. All thoughts of Valducci and revenge disappear in my sudden worry for her.

“Baby.” I cross the last of the distance between us and pull her body flush against mine. “What's going on? What's wrong?”

“Nothing's wrong. I've just been thinking about what you said on the phone earlier and I want it. I want all of it now.”

Then she's lifting onto her tiptoes, pressing her mouth against mine in an open-mouthed kiss so hot it's practically pornographic. Behind her, I hear the snick of the door, telling me that Ethan has shown himself out.

Something's wrong. I know it, can feel it in the way she's holding herself, in the way she's holding me. But I also know that, whatever's made her this upset, this is what she wants to get over it. This is what she's asking me for.

After everything I've said, everything I've promised her these last couple of days, I'm not going to deny her now. Not when she's aching and desperate and so, so vulnerable.

That knowledge—that understand​ing—is the last straw. With a muffled groan, I pick her up and carry her over to my desk while she wraps those long, gorgeous legs of hers around my waist. A quick sweep of my arm has binders and random papers flying off the desk and onto the floor. And then her ass is exactly where I've been imagining it, balanced precariously on the polished wood of my desk as I reach beneath her dress and rip her panties right off her.

Sebastian can make it better.

Those five words have been my mantra since I fled my parents' house half an hour ago, since I ran away from the words my father fired at me like precision-strike, heat-seeking missiles.

Words like responsibi​lity. Family. Duty. Lucy.

My God. Lucy.

After everything that's happened—e​verything I've done and everything that's been done to me—I can't think about Lucy right now. Can't think about how much she's hurting. Can't think about all the time I'm missing with her because I won't—because I can't—bend to my father's demands.

No, I promise myself as I yank Sebastian's dress shirt free from his pants so that I can slide my hands under it and claw at the slick, hot skin of his back. All I'm going to think about right now is him and this moment and the way he makes me feel.

It's not an answer, not even close. But for now—when I feel like one more mistake, one more threat, one more rejection will send me spiraling out of control—it's enough. And when Sebastian lowers his lips to the hollow of my throat, when he nips sharply at my collarbone at the same time he thrusts two fingers inside me, it's more than enough. When he's slow, he's really, really slow—teasing and tasting, sucking and stroking his way over every part of my body. And when he's fast—

I gasp as his fingers twist sharply inside of me and send me hurtling over the edge into an orgasm I didn't even know I was close to. As my body slowly comes down from the heights, I can't help but finish the thought. When he's fast, Sebastian is wicked. Wonderful. Wild.

“Aria.” His whisper is harsh to my ears, even as he works his way down my collarbone to my breasts. I arch my spine, feeling like a fucking contortionist as I struggle to get his mouth around my nipple. But just when I'm tugging at his hair, hard, he pushes back against me. Lifts his head. Looks me dead in the eye and asks, “Do we need to talk about this?”

“No,” I gasp out. “God, no.”

He studies me for one second, two. “Okay.”

And then he's kissing me, lips and tongue and teeth pressing hard against my own.

It feels so good—
he
feels so good—and I want it to go on and on and on. Want to be here, right here in this moment, tongues and arms and bodies tangled together, forever.

But I'm restless, too, my body on fire for what only he can give. He's already made me come once—fast and brutal—but I want more. I want what he told me on the phone. Everything he has to give me. And then more. Always more.

I dig my nails into the firm muscles of his back, relish the way he groans. The way his body bucks against mine so that his cock is pressed right up against my sex.

He starts to pull away and I know—I know—it's because he wants to regain control. Wants to draw this out so he can torture me and make me come again and again and again. And while I'm normally all for a string of orgasms—what girl wouldn't be?—that's not what I want from him right now.

Not what I need.

Which is why I wrap my legs around his waist, and my arms around his shoulders and hold him tight against me. The full-body contact is what I'm craving—every part of him touching every part of me.

He groans again, a dark, tormented sound that shoots right through me and has me practically panting with desire. I bite down on his lip in response, not hard enough to draw blood, but more than hard enough to tell him that I mean business. That I want more and I want it now.

“Fuck, Aria!” he gasps as he pulls back an inch or two so he can rest his forehead against mine.

“That's what I'm trying to get done,” I growl, right before I pull his mouth back to mine. I nip at him again, relishing the way his body jerks against mine. I lave my tongue over his poor, abused lips, sucking them into my mouth one at a time, soothing the sting of my bites.

And then I'm ripping at the thin silk of his shirt, buttons flying everywhere as I all but tear it off him. It probably costs more than I make in a month, but right now, I don't give a damn. If I don't feel his bare skin against me in the next thirty seconds, I swear I'm going to lose my mind.

Finally, I get the shirt completely undone and Sebastian takes his hands off me just long enough to shrug it onto the floor. For a moment, I'm spellbound by the sight of his chest—and the phoenix rising from the ashes that he has tattooed there. It calls to me, touches me deep inside as I think of how hard I've worked to be reborn. To rise from the ashes of my past. For the first time, I wonder about Sebastian—​about what past he wants to be reborn from.

But before the thought can take hold—take root—he's touching me everywhere​—everywher​e—those long, calloused,
talented
fingers of his brushing across my cheek, down my neck, over my breasts, across my stomach.

And still it's not enough. For the first time I wonder if it ever will be. If this thing between Sebastian and me will ever burn itself out or if it will just keep getting hotter and hotter forever.

But his hands are on my thighs now, pushing them apart, and I can't think anymore. I arch my back instead, push into his touch.

He curses softly, reverently, and then he's yanking my dress over my head in one quick, powerful motion. My bra follows seconds later and then he's fumbling with his pants, shoving them down and out of the way.

“Now!” I tell him, shocked partly at the breathy sound of my voice and partly by my own audacity.

He stiffens against me and for a minute I think that I've pushed it too far, have ordered him around too blatantly when it's obvious that he likes to be the one in control.

I whimper at the thought, my hands clutching at him, pulling him closer, closer, closer as desperate tears leak out of the corners of my closed eyes.

“Don't leave me!” I beg him as I arch and tremble against him. “Please, don't leave me like this.”

“I'm not, baby.” His voice is smoke and gravel and long sleepless nights. “I couldn't even if I wanted to.”

“Then what—”

“Condom,” he says bitterly even as he bends down and fumbles in his pants pocket.

I hear a faint rustling as he tears the package open.

“Give it to me,” I demand, brushing his hands aside so I can roll it on him myself, in a slow, hand over hand motion that makes a growl rumble up from his chest and his eyes nearly roll back in his head. “Fuck, Aria. Keep that up and it's going to be over before it starts.”

“Promises, promises,” I say mockingly against the hot, salty skin of his throat as I finally finish the job.

Sebastian's hands tangle in my hair at the taunt, yanking my head back hard enough to have new tears springing to my eyes—and wetness dripping from my sex. “Now,” I tell him, grabbing frantically at his shoulders, his back, his ass. “I need you inside me now.”

He doesn't wait for a second invitation, but slides home in one strong, powerful thrust.

I scream then, my body hurtling straight into a second climax the moment he fills me up.

“Shit. Fuck. Damn.” Curses are falling from his lips like prayers as he pulls back and slams into me again. And again. And again. “You feel so fucking good, Aria. I fucking want to stay inside you forever.”

Yes, oh, God, yes. I can't say the words out loud—they're too much, too soon—but I want to. I really want to, because nothing has ever felt this good, this right. Not since I walked away fourteen months ago without a backward glance, and if I'm honest, not before then, either.

All along, Sebastian has had one hand braced against my lower back, keeping my body tilted at the perfect angle so that every slide of his cock inside me hits my G-spot. Again and again and again and again. Over and over, until my eyes are crossing and my body is trembling with the need to come one more time.

“Please,” I beg him, my hips moving restlessly against his, out of sync with his own movements as the need takes over.

Immediately his other hand comes to my hip, presses down hard enough to leave bruises but not hard enough to hurt, not really. He's locking me in place, keeping me still so that I have no escape, no relief. No choice but to take what he's giving me. To take and take and take until I'm overheated, oversensitive, over everything. And when he slides one long finger across my hip to my clit, I know that the damage is done. For now and maybe forever.

I'm no longer in control of my own body. Sebastian is and he wields that control like a weapon—and a shield.

It's a gift and a curse and I want it to end even as I want it to go on forever.

“Sebastian!” I call out and it's a high-pitched, breathy sound that is nothing like my usual voice. “Do it! Just fucking
do
it.”

He laughs, low and dark. But then he's circling my clit with his finger, flicking over it once, twice.

But it's not enough. I'm too wound up, too oversensitive, my body wigging out in twenty different directions as the ecstasy and the agony continue to build and build and build.

“Sebastian, please!” I'm fucking begging at this point and I don't give a damn. If he doesn't do something soon, I'm going to go crazy. I'm going to—

He pinches my clit, hard, with one hand. Clamps down hard on my nipple with the other. And I go off like the fucking Fourth of July.

Even better, Sebastian's right there with me, groaning and arching and shuddering as he pours himself into me in long, powerful pulses that take my breath away.

It goes on forever, seconds bleeding into minutes as I keep him locked against me with my arms, my legs. Not that he seems in any hurry to move, but I'm not taking any chances. I feel fragile, wrung out,
desperate
, and I need these moments with him. The quiet after the storm.

I keep waiting for him to try to pull away, but he doesn't. Instead, he rests his forehead in the crook of my neck and presses soft kisses to my jaw, my shoulder, my collarbone. Wherever he can reach as we slowly, slowly come back down.

When it's over, when I can finally stand the idea of Sebastian letting me go, I loosen my grip. He pulls back a little, looks straight into my eyes, which I know are puffy and watery, confused and hurt. So hurt. I brace myself for the inevitable questions, for the demands to know why I'm being so weird. So clingy. So needy when just this morning I told him that I wasn't sure I ever wanted to do this with him again.

But Sebastian doesn't say anything about my weird behavior. Just pulls out reluctantly and then steps away to dispose of the condom.

I watch him for a second, loving the sexy ebb and flow of his shoulder and back muscles as he moves. Loving even more the way he glances over his shoulder at me, like even those few seconds are too long to go without seeing me.

But I can't stay here forever, legs spread and ass naked against his desk, no matter how much I wish I could. So gingerly I climb down, pick up my bra and dress off the floor. I slide them quickly back into place. The panties are a lost cause, so I scoop them into a ball and deposit them in Sebastian's trash can.

Staring at them there—bright and garish and completely out of place against the pencil shavings and sheets of white paper currently residing there—totally kills whatever sex buzz is still humming through my veins. It makes me feel cheap. Out of place. Like I could never belong here in Sebastian's world.

Which is true, right? After all, I just finished fucking the boss in his office for the second day in a row. And once again I let him do anything he wanted to me. Talk about a cliché.

The only problem is I don't belong anywhere else, either. And of all the hats I've tried on in the last fourteen months, of all the people I've tried to be—or not to be—this is the one I like best. The one I might actually like to wear around for a while, just to see how it fits.

I don't know if it's that realization or if it's the picture my panties make in his trash can or if it's just that I'm able to think clearly for the first time since Sebastian told me to put my hands against the window last night. But whatever it is, I'm suddenly completely freaked out again. Completely terrified of what is. What was. What could be.

And once I acknowledge that emotion, all the rest of them come rushing back into me, too. Everything comes rushing back.

My sister.

My father.

Carlo.

My mother.

The choices I made fourteen months ago and the choices I continue to make today.

The look of disappoint​ment, of disgust, of
rage
on my father's face this morning, right before I turned to flee.

I try to keep it together, to keep the seething, roiling mess of my thoughts from showing on my face, but I must not succeed, because Sebastian reaches for me. “Do we need to talk about this?” he asks in an obvious echo of his earlier question.

My answer is the same now as it was then, as well. “No.”

He looks unimpressed, his smile rueful and his electric green eyes anything but amused. “Yeah, well, now that my dick isn't actively involved in the conversation that answer isn't going to cut it.”

“It's going to have to.” I nod toward the black chrome clock hanging on the opposite wall. “I need to clean up. I'm supposed to be on the floor in fifteen minutes.”

“Fuck the floor,” he tells me, and outside of sex, it's one of the few curse words I've heard Sebastian use. It gives me pause. Or maybe it's the tone of voice he says it in—firm, no-nonsense, absolute, that stops me in my tracks. He usually doesn't talk to me like that unless he's fucking me and judging from the fact that he's yanking his own clothes back into place—and putting distance between us as he does it—an instant replay really isn't an option right now.

But standing here, hashing over my feelings and my past, isn't, either. Not now. Maybe not ever, but definitely not now. And definitely not with him.