Page 51 of How to Play the Player

“Patience,” he says with the familiar command in his voice.

I prop myself on my elbows, suddenly needing to see everything, to not miss a moment of this. His hands slide beneath my thighs, lifting them slightly. The calluses on his palms catch against the sensitive skin.

He presses his lips to the inside of my knee, and I shiver. So close to where I actually need him. Then higher, to my innerthigh, his tongue darting out to taste my skin. Higher still, until I’m holding my breath, the anticipation almost painful. I can feel his breath, hot and damp, through the thin lace of my panties now.

“Please,” I beg again, no longer caring how needy I sound.

His fingers finally hook into the sides of my underwear. I feel the slight brush of his knuckles against my hips—and then hear a small tear before they fall to the ground. I’m completely bare to him.

The cool air hits my heated center for a moment before he settles back on his knees, his head between my thighs. His hands slide up my legs, spreading them even wider. His eyes meet mine before wrapping his arms around my hips, sliding me farther toward him. The intensity of his eyes seems to offer me a final chance to stop this.

Instead, I slide my hand to the back of his neck and guide him to me.

He doesn’t hesitate as he leans his head to my sex. The first touch of his tongue makes me lie back down onto the desk, my back arching. A cry of pleasure tears from my throat, followed by a long moan. I close my eyes, giving in to the ecstasy. His mouth is hot and knowing, finding the perfect spot immediately. One large hand splays across my stomach, holding me in place as I buck against him. The other places my thigh over his shoulder. His fingers dig into my thigh hard enough to leave marks I’ll no doubt find tomorrow.

“Oh, my god,” I scream, my fingers tangling farther in his hair, trying to pull him impossibly closer.

He hums against me, the vibration sending sparks all around my vision. The dual assault of his tongue and the rumble of his approval against my pussy is almost too much. I can feel myself climbing rapidly toward release, my thighs beginning to tremble on either side of his head.

My world narrows to the hot, wet pleasure of his mouth, the grip of his hands, the building tension coiling more and more tightly low in my belly. I’m vaguely aware of the sounds escaping me—half-formed pleas and broken moans—but I’m beyond caring. There’s just this moment, this man, this pleasure that’s erasing the year of emptiness between us.

“Nathan,” I manage to scream out, before the orgasm takes its hold on me. It’s so powerful, I arch my body off the desk and impossibly closer to his mouth. Wave after wave of bliss crashes through me, radiating outward from where his mouth, and now thumb on my clit, continues to work against me. My vision blurs; my lungs burn as I realize I’ve been holding my breath.

Nathan doesn’t relent, not even when I tug at his hair. He holds me through the aftershocks, gentling his touch but not stopping until I’m limp and trembling on the desk.

For a moment, we simply breathe together, his chest rising and falling in time with mine. I don’t know what to feel. Confusion, desire, perhaps even anger at myself for letting him have his way with me again. And by the look on his face, I can see he’s facing similar emotions.

He climbs on the desk, leaning over me, and kisses my lips. Not with the tenderness I half expected, but with a fierce intensity that makes me gasp against his mouth.

My hands find his shoulders as he pulls me up.

“Quinn,” he breathes against my lips, my name sounding like both a question and an accusation.

I pull back just enough to look into his eyes, searching for something—forgiveness, understanding, some hint of what this means to him. For us. What I sense instead is a bundle of contradictions. Desire at war with distrust, tenderness battling anger. His walls aren’t down, but cracked, revealing glimpses into the man I once knew.

I trace the sharp line of his jaw with my fingers, then cup his face in my hands. So many questions hang between us. This is beyond physical release. It never was only that with us.

“Nathan,” I whisper, “what are we doing?”

He stills immediately, but his eyes don’t leave mine. The question hangs between us, weighted with so much hurt, pain, and mistrust.

He takes in a deep sigh. “Something I should have done a year ago. Talk. About everything.”

Could we bury the hatchet? Is he finally willing to listen? His admission makes my heart stutter.

He waits, patient despite the obvious strain of his restraint. His muscles rigid, his eyes searching. He wants me, my body. But he wants to hear my words more. He’s given me control over what happens next.

I crash my lips to his. The hard conversation we’re about to have won’t be pleasant, but it isn’t something we can avoid. I don’t know where we go from here, or if trust can ever be rebuilt to what it once was between us.

And then our phones buzz simultaneously—mine on the far corner of the desk above my head, his in his pocket. We ignore the threat of reality, lost in each other, until the buzzing continues insistently, followed by the distinctive chime from my phone indicating breaking news alerts.

“Ignore it,” Nathan murmurs against my throat.

The phones buzz again, more urgently.

“Let me at least turn it off.” I reach across the desk, grabbing the device and glancing at the screen. My entire body tenses. “Nathan,” I say, turning my body to face him, my voice suddenly serious.

“What is it?” Nathan pulls back slightly, reaching for his own.

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