Page 67 of Where the Blacktop Ends

“You’re distracting,” he murmurs, leaning closer, his free hand cupping one of my breasts, his fingers flicking my nipple. “This body—it’s consumed my thoughts since that day you sat on me in the steam room.”

“Oh?” I manage, though it sounds more like a breathless sigh.

“Oh,” he confirms with a smile, his fingers still working inside me, his thumb circling against my clit. “When you showed upto the interview, I was excited that I’d see you again, but I was frustrated because I knew I had to hire you.”

“Why?” I ask, lifting my hips to rock up into his hand, desperate to cum.

“Because I didn’t want to lose you again. If I didn’t hire you, you’d have gone back to Texas. And if I did hire you, you’d be off limits to me.”

Shit…

“But I’m starting to break my own rule, because, fuck Georgia, I can’t stop touching you. Stop wanting you.”

My eyes open as I watch him. His gaze is tortured as he works my body higher and closer to my orgasm.

“And I hate that you were scared today. I hate that they did that to you. When I saw those photos… I nearly knocked someone out right there on the sidewalk in the middle of New York City foot traffic.”

His fingers shift, swirling and scissoring inside me, and I’m on the verge of coming when he suddenly pulls back just enough to make me whimper. My hands shoot to his wrists, desperate to keep him there.

He grins. “Don’t worry, I’m not finished with you.”

Chapter 25 – Georgia

Troy helps me stand and then shifts me until I’m perched on the edge of the tub, my feet resting on the cool, bathroom floor.

“Sit,” he commands, “and hold on to the edge. Tightly.”

I obey, but it’s more than obedience—it’s surrender. My breath stutters as the tension coils tighter, wrapping around me like a wire ready to snap. Troy kneels before me, and his touch—gentle yet commanding—sends a shiver through my core. When he spreads my knees apart, exposing me, it’s not just my body on display. It’s everything. My trust. My craving for him to see me, to want me beyond the heat of this moment. The air around us feels thick, the warmth of the bath mixing with the heat of my arousal, leaving my skin slick with a fine sheen of sweat.

When I glance down, I notice the soapy suds from the coconut body wash trailing from my chest, down the center of my breasts, and between my legs, slipping onto the floor beneath me. I’m so slick, the risk of sliding off the edge of the tub is real, but I don’t care. The way Troy watches me—his eyes darkand burning from between my legs—makes me want to stay like this forever. I could come from the earlier teasing and that look alone.

“You’ve got a pretty pussy, Georgia.”

A nervous giggle bubbles out, but it dies when his hands move—upward first, fingers tracing over the coconut-slick curve of my breasts. He circles one nipple, rolling it between his fingers with a lazy precision that has my toes curling against the cool tile. Then lower. His touch drags down my sides, teasing the sensitive skin of my waist before his palms knead into my thighs. He’s in no rush. His fingertips brush higher, closer, parting my opening with maddening patience—until one finger slides inside, finding that spot that sends a bolt of lightning through my core.

“You’re so warm and tight,” he growls, sliding another finger inside. “I’ve been thinking about being inside you since that night at the beach. Do you know how hard it is to feel this pussy and not want it?”

I bite my lip, shaking my head. “So, take it.”

Because I don’t have an ounce of self-control where he’s concerned. I’ve wanted him from the moment I saw him in the steam room—wanted him with a hunger that scares me. But this isn’t just about sex. It’s about the way he looks at me, like I’m worth more than the broken pieces I’ve been trying to hide. So why has he held back for so long? And why am I so damn afraid of what happens when I finally give in?

He grins, slipping a second finger inside me. “Can’t do that until I stretch you out nice and good. Gotta prepare you for me because if you remember—I’m a lot to take.”

Oh boy, do I remember.

Hefty! Hefty! Hefty!

His fingers move again—slow, deliberate—twisting with a wicked precision that presses the heel of his hand against my clit. The friction sends a wild pulse through me, my body arching, thighs trembling as the pressure builds. I’m slipping, the cool porcelain of the tub biting into my palms as I cling tighter, my head falling back. But there’s no escaping this. No escaping him.

“Tell me something, Georgia…” His voice drops lower, rough and full of need. “Have you been touching yourself, thinking about me?”

“I…yes,” I admit.

“Hm…” he hums softly as he watches between my legs, his fingers disappearing in and out, over and over making a wet, squishing noise. “When was that?”

I dig my palms into the hot, damp edge of the tub as I look up at the ceiling, trying to slow my breathing and stall the orgasm that’s barreling from deep within me.

“This morning. When I heard you wake up at five to leave for work. I imagined you in one of your suits and the scent of your cologne...” my voice trails off, caught up in the heat of the moment again.

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