Page 36 of Darling Venom
One of her tan legs wrapped around his waist. The other extended over his shoulder. He was fully clothed in dark cigarette pants and a matching cashmere sweater that highlighted his insanely muscular physique.
He was also looking straight at me.
I met his eyes disobediently. The woman he was screwing was still oblivious to my presence. After all, I hadn’t knocked.
Blood rushed up from my neck to my cheeks. My face grew impossibly hot. A slow, taunting smirk spread over his lips.
I realized two horrific things at the same time:
He looked exactly like an older version of Kellan. Unruly auburn hair, tousled and glossy, light gray eyes, and the angular cheekbones of a titan. No, he was not Hollywood hot. He was deity-hot. He was screw-your-life-up hot. And…
He enjoyed me being here, watching. A lot.
Every bone in my body screamed at me to turn and run away before I got arrested. Or maybe he’d be the one getting arrested for sexual harassment. I didn’t know, but I felt strongly that one of us should be handcuffed and not just for funsies.
Only, I wanted to rattle him like he rattled me, so I stayed rooted in my spot.
“Yes, Tatum! Yes! I’m coming. Fuck, I’m coming. Oh. Oh. Tatum. Tatum,” the woman screamed, her eyes squeezed shut in pleasure.
Tate brought his hand between the two of them, sliding his thumb into her. He slipped it into his mouth, sucked the juices, and freed the finger with a pop.
“You like that?” his husky, low voice snarled.
Chills ran up and down my arms.
My eyes narrowed at him.
No, I hate it.
“Yes!” the woman wailed, but it wasn’t her he’d asked.
He thrust harder and deeper, hitting a spot that made her whimper again and again.
To my horror, I felt myself squeezing my thighs against nothing. My nipples were hard, and for the first time in years, I thanked my lucky stars I was so flat-chested I had to wear a padded bra.
“Fuckkkkk,” she cried, obviously not satisfied until everyone in this zip code knew she’d reached her climax.
She is coming.
I am watching her come.
What was wrong with me?
Everything.
Everything was wrong with me.
But turning around would be letting him win, and I didn’t want to let Tate Marchetti win.
She became limp as he pumped into her, finding his own release. His climax hit different. Straitlaced and unruffled.
He didn’t let go. Just released a little, polite grunt, then moved a few inches away from her, yanked the condom off, and tossed it into the trash at the side of the desk.
He reached for a silver tissue box, wiping himself off—her privates shielding his—and tucking himself back in.
He was still staring at me.
Our eyes had never wavered from one another.
