Page 47 of For the Plot
His eyes drop to my mouth, and when he speaks again, his voice comes out like a strained plea. “I’m not afraid of touching you, Skye. I’m afraid of what happens when I do.” The air thickens between us, the pull unbearable.
“You don’t get it,” he continues. “You walk in with that mouth, that skirt, those fucking eyes, and you look at me like you want to know”—he leans in, mouth brushing the shell of my ear—“exactly what it would feel like to have my cock pumping deep inside you over and over again, filling you up until I’m dripping down your thighs while you beg me to stop but I don’t stop… I wouldn’t stop.”
A gasp escapes before I can stop it. My knees threaten betrayal but I refuse to let him intimidate me. I know he’s losing control, just like I am… but I want him to lose control. I want him to know that I want him to lose control.
I tilt my chin, heart pounding. “Or if you’d even fit.”
He laughs, low and dark. “Oh, sweetheart…” His voice is pure sin. “Not at first.” My breath hitches. “But I’d get you there,” he murmurs. “My fingers. My tongue. I’d stretch you open until your body begged me to fill it. Until you didn’t care if it hurt a little.”
I’m shaking now, every cell in my body begging to be touched. To be claimed. Shamelessly, recklessly, I reach out and trail my fingers down his chest. One button. Then the next. His muscles twitch beneath my touch. But he lets me. All the way down… until I reach his belt. That’s when his hand darts out. He catches my wrist, firm. Not rough, but final.
“Skye.”
Just my name. He says it as a warning but I can’t stop. “Why not?” I breathe. His grip tightens, just slightly.
“Because if I fuck you the way I want to, you’ll never be able to pretend it meant nothing.” My breath stutters. “And youwilltry to pretend,” he adds, eyes searing into mine. “You’ll convince yourself it was just tension. Just curiosity. That you’re still in control.”
“I’m not trying to control anything.”
“Bullshit,” he growls low. “You have no idea what you’re inviting. You think this is about flirting in hallways and making me hard in meetings, baby girl? No. You don’t need a man like me. You need a soft boy who’ll take you to brunch and repost your selfies. I’ll fuck you so deep you’ll forget your last name and call me sir without thinking.”
I whimper. Actuallywhimper.
“I can’t touch you,” he says, voice rough. “Because if I do, I won’t stop until I’ve lost all control.” He lets go and steps back before I can combust, his expression locked down tight. “I can’t lose control,” he says. “Not with you.”
Then he turns and walks away before I can ask what it would look like if he did. And I’m left alone on the terrace, heart in my throat, thighs pressed together, panties soaked, and absolutely no idea how I’m supposed to survive the rest of this job without combusting.
I don’t even remember walking back to my desk.
My brain is still out there on that terrace, vibrating from the way he whispered against my ear like he had every intention of finishing what he started. My skin still tingles where his fingers brushed my waist, a ghost of contact that might as well be a brand.
What the hell was that?
I sit down slowly, like my bones have forgotten how to hold me upright. My monitor glows with unread emails and blinkingSlack messages, all of them irrelevant compared to the absolute mess happening in my head.
Reece Blackwood wants to ruin me. No. Reece Blackwood is going to ruin me.
I drag my hand down my face and groan quietly, glancing around to make sure no one’s watching me have a full-blown sexual identity crisis at my desk. But the floor is mostly empty, everyone else already cleared out for the day while I was off playingwill he, won’t he?
I click on an email, something boring from HR, and try to read the words. They don’t make it past the surface of my brain. I can’t stop thinking about his voice. The way it dropped. The way he fuckinggrowled.
God, who even does that in real life?
It should’ve sounded ridiculous. It didn’t. It sounded like a delicious, tempting, toe-curling threat.
I shift in my seat and press my thighs together, willing the memory away. It’s not helpful. It’s not healthy. And it’s absolutely going to get me fired.
My phone buzzes on the desk, breaking through the fog of lust and humiliation. I grab it like a lifeline.
Maya:I need an overpriced martini, fries, and a solid hour of talking shit. You in?
God bless her.
Me:You have no idea.
By the time I slide into the leather booth at Blue Room, Maya’s already halfway through her first drink and scrolling through something on her phone with the kind of deadly focus that makes me think someone’s about to get roasted.
“What poor soul are we destroying tonight?” I ask, setting my bag beside me and waving down the bartender.
