Page 4 of Tell Me No Lies

"If you stop fucking me, I will kill you."

Any hope I had for regaining my senses is gone at her threat. I slide her off the desk, gripping both hips to flip her so she's facing it. Then I push against her back, bending her over the front as I line my body back up with hers. Clamping one hand over her mouth, I shove my way back in, blanketing her back, lips against her ear as I fuck her hard and fast. "Not stopping. Just making sure no one but me hears when you come."

2

THIRD TIME’S A CHARM

PIPER

WHAT THE ACTUAL hell is happening?

I've struggled to get off with every single guy I've been with, and now—when I actually want it to take a few minutes so I can enjoy what’s happening—I come right out of the gate, gripping the edge of Tate's desk, his palm pressed over my mouth.

I should have known I was in trouble the second he bent me over and pinned me in place. But when his deep voice growled in my ear about not wanting anyone to hear me come but him?

There was no coming back from that.

My ears are still ringing and my vision is still blurred when Tate uses his hold on my face to pull me upright, bringing my back to his front. "Are you fucking kidding me, Piper?" Did you come already?" His free hand slides over my belly and down between my legs, fingers gliding through the excessive wetness there. "Fuck,” he rasps out. “You did." His hand presses deeper, stroking alongside where our bodies are joined. "I think that might be a record for me."

"Hut umfph." I'm pissed off at him, and the muffled sound of my comeback—thanks to the hand still pressed over my mouth—only makes it worse. He should've paced himself. Taken a little more time to—

"Let's see if we can make it happen again." The pads of his fingers slide forward, tracing along each side of my clit. "I bet we can."

I've never come twice during sex before. Getting off once is hard enough. Hoping for two is the equivalent of visiting a ranch and expecting to find a unicorn.

It just isn't going to happen.

But then Tate’s movement changes, going from hard and fast, to slow and almost languid. The difference is almost startling, and leaves my body reeling, unsure how to react. So it just decides to start this whole process all over. Like Tate pressed a magical reset button.

I guess he is working some sort of a button.

A little squeak of a sound sneaks out from behind the hand clamped over my mouth as he continues stroking me with a light touch. Tate makes a pleased humming sound that rumbles against my back and warms my ear. "There we go. Now we're getting somewhere."

Knowing he's right is irritating. He shouldn't be this good. Shouldn't know exactly how to touch me. Shouldn't be able to make my body do his bidding. Yet here I am, bent over in his office, well on my way to my second orgasm in less than ten minutes.

Each thrust of his body into mine sends me closer to the edge, legs shaking as I flail around for something to hang onto. My fingers find the opposite edge of the desk just as he picks up speed, hips bouncing against the curve of my ass as he slams into me, dragging across a spot inside my body that has me seeing stars.

Is this how sex is supposed to be? Because up until now, I was under the impression it involved a lot of fumbling and random poking that never stayed consistent long enough to get me much of anywhere.

Nothing Tate’s doing seems random. Every move he makes feels calculated and controlled. Designed to ruin me forever.

And, like everything else he does, it fucking pisses me off. Not enough to make him stop, but I'm still pretty mad.

His palm slips from my mouth so his arm can band across my chest, hand gripping my shoulder as the other one continues to strum alongside my clit. His lips trail along my neck before pausing against my ear, words clipped and deep as he growls out, "It's time to come for me again, Piper, but you have to be quiet."

Like the greedy, betraying bitch she is, my body complies. Clenching around him like he's the fucking overlord of orgasms. Ruling my body as if it’s his birthright.

The hand between my legs stills, but stays put, cupping my pussy possessively as the room spins out around me. Tate buries his face against my neck, those perfectly executed movements finally becoming jerky and erratic as he continues sinking into me over and over again, each glide slicker than the last.

I've never been the kind of girl who gets super wet—likely due to the lack of orgasms—so the sloppy sounds coming from where our bodies meet is both shocking and a little embarrassing. Except Tate doesn't seem bothered by it at all. The palm locked between my thighs grips tighter as he groans against my skin, cock buried to the hilt, breath ragged in my ear. “So fucking wet for me.” The heat of his front sinks into my back as he continues filling me to capacity. “Fucking perfect.”

No one’s ever called me that before. Not even close.

I’ve been called everything else though. Bitch. Slut. Tease. Whore. The list goes on and on thanks to the droves of drunk men I had to deal with while I tended bar at The Cellar.

And everyone wondered why I tazed one of them in the nuts.

Another mini tremor that might actually qualify as a third orgasm ripples through me as his dick seems to get bigger, reaching even deeper inside my body as it flexes against my clenching walls. A little sound sneaks through my lips, but I can’t tell how loud or quiet I’m actually being because the ringing in my ears is drowning out everything except the pounding of my own heartbeat.

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