“Now who’s getting cocky?” She jumps forward with her queen and captures my bishop. Bringing the pointy end toward her mouth, she gently, without denting the delicate wood, rests her teeth around the tip. “Gotcha good on that one.”
“Pretty sure you owe me your panties.” I use my pawn—insult on top of injury—and knock her queen to her death, and taking my capturedbishop from between her fingers, I set both beside the board. “You’ve taken heavy casualties, Ms. Tatum. What will you do now?”
She studies the game, counting her soldiers—plus her missing queen—then swallowing, she lowers to her knees, pulling the waistband of my shorts down and freeing my cock until my captured bishop clatters to the floor.
“Iamthe queen,” she murmurs, sultry and delicious. “And I still have moves available to me.”
I choke out a laugh, impressed by her wily game-playing. But then she traps my cock between her lips, dragging my breath out on a gasp and drawing a gritty groan from the depths of my lungs. With a swipe of her tongue and a skilled circle of her lips, she almost undoes me. “Fuck!” I grab the back of her hair and jut my hips forward, slamming my length into the back of her throat. “This is not how we play chess, dammit.”
“Sometimes a war must be won on our back, and not our feet.” She drags her tongue along the bottom of my shaft, circling my cock with her fingers until her tight grip almost brings me to my knees. Suckling on just the tip, and staring up at me from beneath long lashes, she reaches between her legs and inches two fingers inside her panties. “Shit.”
“You lost your queen, so now you must suck my cock.” I rock forward and fill her throat. “You don’t get to pleasure yourself, too. That’s not how punishment works.”
Tears wet her lashes, smudging her makeup. But when I retreat to the very tip, preparing to slide forward again, she places her hand on my hip and stops my momentum, drawing a shaky, shuddering breath into her lungs instead.
She looks up at me with eyes that verge on innocent.
Vulnerable.
Sad, even.
“Are you okay?” Worry is like hot sauce in my veins. Concern, like an anvil on my heart. I wrap my hand around her biceps and tug her to her feet, and when she sways, I hold her against my chest. “Did I hurt you?”
“You said I can’t pleasure myself.” From soft to sorceress, she reveals a wicked smile and slips her fingers between her legs. “I say, stop me.”
“Fuck.” I jerk her into my arms and crash my lips to hers. Capturing her squeal of delight, I walk to my desk and set her down again, peeling her underwear along her legs until I’m presented with her glistening pussy, creamy with desire and throbbing with want.
With need.
“Longest game of my fucking life.” I fist my cock and pray Idon’t embarrass myself. Fuck knows, I’m ready for her. “You’re pretty good at it, though. Just so you know.” I tug her to the very edge of my desk, knocking things from the surface so pens roll to the floor and book stacks collapse.
Normally, that shit would bother me. But not tonight. Not for as long as she’s here and her heart could be mine if only I said the right things. Did the right things.
I wish it were as easy as playing chess.
I line up at her fiery opening, teasing her entrance, taunting us both, and when her eyes come to mine, I race forward and fill her to bursting. Without asking. Without warning. Without giving her time to adjust. Her pleasure turns to pain and her cry of delight verges on agony, but then I ride her, sliding in until her natural lubrication makes the glide smooth, then out again until her cry turns to caress.
“Jesus. Chris?—”
“Be with me like you’re scared it’s our last time.” I drape her legs over my shoulders and stare into her wide, panicked eyes, and hugging her thighs to my chest, I fuck her.
Like it’s our last time.
Like I might die if we don’t have this.
June fourteenth is a guillotine hanging over my head, and death comes too quickly. Too gleefully.
“Fuck,” I massage her clit with the pad of my thumb. “Sweetest pussy I’ll ever know.”
ROUND TWENTY-FIVE
FOX
“The cake’s confirmed and set to be delivered by the bakery. Seating’s being organized by the guys.” I work down my checklist, walking with Alana now that she’s part of the planning process. “Catering’s done, music’s ready, and the guest list is pretty freakin’ plump.” I come to a stop in the gym’s doorway, in the section between the front desk and the room that holds a regulation-sized boxing ring.
Lucky for us, Tommy and Chris are sparring, and even if I pretended to be an evolved human being turned off by the sight of blood, the long line trailing from Chris’ lip is, admittedly, enormously sexy.
I’m no better than a neanderthal.