Page 105 of Down Shift (Driven 8)
“Stand up,” he demands, eyes daring, fingers twitching as they hang by his side.
I rise slowly. My heart pounds as anticipation becomes adrenaline. He steps forward and doesn’t touch a single part of my body aside from the hem of my shirt as he pulls it up. “Lift,” he orders, and I comply without question.
The only break in eye contact we have is when the shirt passes over my face, but we instantly find each other the minute it passes. His breath feathers over my cheeks as he lifts his shirt over his head to match my state of undress.
“This isn’t about me trying to control you, Getty.” He leans forward and brushes a kiss to my lips, his voice a soothing timbre now. Hands behind his back, our bodies are only inches apart. “This isn’t about me getting off on ordering you around.” An openmouthed kiss on the side of my neck, the scrape of his stubble as he rubs his chin over it. “This is you handing over the control of your sexual pleasure right now.” The other side of my neck this time, no urgency in his voice, but rather he sounds like he has all the time in the world. “This is you trusting me, Getty.” He leans back from me and I swear the hair on my body stands on end just to try to reach out so I can touch him in some way. “This is you, giving me your body.” His fingers slide inside the waistband of my yoga pants. “Your mind.” Strong hands continue their slide down the outsides of my thighs until my pants and panties fall to the floor. “Your consent.”
I inhale a shaky breath. His words entice. Intrigue. Inflame. He wants me to let him have control when he knows I have issues, but he’s created a situation where my body is aching to give control up to him. And I know there’s no way in hell I’m going to say no.
Desire’s thick in my throat as he stands to full height and steps toward me. I hear the wheels of my chair as he kicks it to the side so he can stand behind me. One finger slides down the line of my spine. My back arches at his touch. My mouth gasps. My eyes fall closed.
The heat of his breath hits right at my ear. His voice feels like aural foreplay. “I was outside working on the deck and all I could think about was how bad I wanted to taste you. Dip my head between those tan thighs of yours and flick my tongue over your clit, work you up nice and good. Your-hands-pulling-at-my-hair kind of good. Then I’d slide down to your pussy so I can taste how goddamn sweet you are when you come.”
Dear. God.
“But a pretty boy wouldn’t do that. No,” he murmurs, teeth nipping at the lobe of my ear. He nudges my head to the side so he can run his tongue along the curve of my neck, then back. He then places openmouthed kisses from the nape of my neck to the other ear. “A pretty boy would lay you down, go through the motions to get you off, but he’d be too afraid to get dirty.” He draws the last word out, his voice low, raspy. And yet he still denies my body the touch of his hands. “And I like dirty, Getty. I like hands-on.” He purrs the promise despite removing his lips from my skin.
My body feels electric. Needing the connection with him. Desperate for him to make this current between us spark.
“I like my fingers slowly working in and out of your pussy, my mouth sucking on your nipples or kissing behind your knees, my dick rock-hard with wanting you, and my control holding on by a thread, begging it to break kind of dirty.”
My mouth goes dry. Between my thighs goes wet. This gentle, considerate lover of mine has all of a sudden turned into a man on a mission to seduce.
The old me, the one in designer clothes and perfect makeup, would have blushed at his words while secretly getting hot and bothered and would have mentally filed them away to think about later when she was alone. But the new me, the one he’s sexually awakened with his considerate touch and evident attraction to me, stands up and takes notice. She waves her hand frantically in the air and says, Pick me. Choose me. Do tho
se things to me.
“Do you still want me pretty, Socks . . . or would you rather I be dirty?” I can feel the warmth of his breath on my neck.
“Zander?” His name comes out part plea, part question.
“Begging already?” A soft taunt of a chuckle. “And I haven’t even started yet.”
He steps back behind me. Fingers undoing the clasp of my bra. The scrape of the straps down my arms.
“So damn beautiful . . . Come, sit down.”
I turn to meet his eyes, the steamy look in them seduction all in itself, before I move to where he’s pointing: an ottoman that runs along the foot of the bed. I sit dead center against a pillow he’s placed there, our gazes still locked as he kneels before me. When his hands finally reach out, they touch my ankles. The spark ignites at the apex of my thighs as he slowly pulls my ankles as far apart as possible, my knees falling against the seat.
My arms are next. He directs them to the top of the bed’s footboard, then curls my fingers in position around its edges.
“Keep them like that,” he warns as he stands, my body screaming in protest when he steps away from me. “While tying them there might be fun, I don’t think you’re ready to give me that much control yet.”
My body trembles at the thought. An excited fear I can’t describe but think I could handle if he was at the helm.
“Another time. That I can promise you.” He stands before me, eyes scraping over every single inch of me. Such a different type of scrutiny from what I’m used to. One that says I want to touch every single part of you. Take and taste and sate and claim until you can’t handle any more.
And while he’s looking at me, I definitely get my fill of him: his tanned chest, the happy trail that leads below where his jeans hang low on his hips, the bulge straining against the seam of the denim, his bare feet. When I look back up to meet his eyes, there’s a lift of his brow, a kind of you like what you see? smirk on his lips, and before I can find an adequate nonverbal response, my eyes are drawn back down to his hands.
With a methodical slowness, they start undoing his jeans, shoving them down, and he steps out of them. All six-foot-plus of him stands back up to full height, giving me more than an eyeful of every firm, rippling, desirable inch of him. My nipples harden. My breath grows shallow.
“I have half a mind to paint you like that. Just how you are. So you can see what I see when I look at you. Sexy.” He takes a step toward me. “Confident.” A step. “Beautiful.” Another step. “Innocent.” He’s between my thighs again. My face angles up to his. “But I’m not a painter, Getty.” He drops to his knees. “So I’ll have to show you in a different way.”
With eyes still on mine and his hands on his own thighs, Zander leans forward and slides his tongue between the seam of my sex. I can’t hold back a moan or the unabashed writhe of my hips. The eroticism of him watching me react to the devastation of that single swipe of a tongue is more powerful than anything I’ve ever experienced with a man.
Even better, he doesn’t stop. Yet he takes his time. With tongue and lips and stubble all affecting me in different ways. His attentions make my muscles tense and every nerve ache and want and need, before he backs off and looks up at me with my arousal on his lips and a gleam in his eye. Just as fast, he’s diving back in to start the buildup all over again.
On the third time I’m so pent up with need that as he begins to pull his mouth away, my hands grip what I can of his short hair and hold his head against me. It’s his chuckle that reverberates against my sex, though, not his tongue like I wanted.
