A knot in my throat. “No,” I say, my voice breaking. “That’s not true.”
There’s a shift in the metal, and I realize he’s touching the door on the opposite side. Only an inch separates us. “I suppose we’ll find out,” he says, soft enough I have to strain to hear. “When I touch your pussy, we’ll find out if this is getting you wet. Won’t we?”
There’s a clench between my legs, and I know exactly what he’s going to find. “Don’t.”
The stall door opens despite my weight, inexorably, inevitably, until I’m standing there in front of him. His white T-shirt has black smudges that weren’t there before. It looks somehow more obscene than even my silk camisole with no bra beneath it. In his gaze I find an unexpected tenderness.
“Don’t what?” he asks, his voice gentle.
How far do I want this game to go? “I don’t know.”
“It’s a little late to ask for mercy, beautiful.”
I’m doing more than asking. I’m begging, after he made me come three times last night. He looks hard as steel beneath those jeans, and he didn’t climax even once.
Slowly, slowly, I sink to my knees in the half-built bathroom.
Asher’s eyes flash. “What are you doing?”
“You’re right,” I whisper, my gaze on his. “I do enjoy getting the men all riled up. I like thinking about the dirty things they’d make me do if they trapped me in a room like this.”
He takes a step closer, his body inches from mine. “Show me.”
My hands are clumsy on his belt buckle, but he makes no move to help me. He stands there like a god passing judgment. The tile is hard and cold beneath my knees; it makes this sharper. Sweeter.
The denim strains against the length of him. My hands tremble as I tug the zipper down, half afraid I’ll hurt him, half afraid he’ll hurt me. That’s what this is—a form of battle. One of us is going to lose.
There’s another layer, a thin grey cotton. It stretches obscenely around the length of his cock. I can see the shape of him with the vein underneath. I can see the outline of the flared head.
And a drop of precum darkening the cotton to black.
It makes me bolder, seeing the power I have over him.
I hook my fingers into the band of his underwear and pull down. My knuckles brush the hot iron brand of his cock, and both of us suck in a breath. Then his cock juts away from his body, proud and hard. And far too big to fit into my mouth. Without thinking I lick my lips, as if readying myself.
His dark gaze tracks my tongue. It’s a little late to ask for mercy, beautiful.
His cock jerks when I touch it, as if it’s alive, and I make a high-pitched sound of surprise. I have to force myself to touch him again. The warm skin moves beneath my fingertips, almost like velvet encasing steel. A solid construction, this cock. The core of him built to withstand anything.
Built to withstand my tongue, when I reach out and touch the tip. Bitter-salt flavor bursts in my mouth.
“Jesus,” he mutters, almost restless. His hands are in the air, those hands made strong and callused with work, as if he doesn’t know where to put them. In my hair. That’s what he decides. He strokes my hair, gentle, gentle, and then hard—a sudden yank that makes me gasp.
Tears prick my eyes.
“You can take more,” he says, uncompromising.
I open my mouth wider and push myself forward, letting my body open to him in the most natural way, letting the feminine softness of me surrender to the masculine hardness of him. The flare of his cock rubs against my tongue, and I flick him in retaliation. He swears in a long, obscene string.
“Too much,” I say, the words too muffled to understand.
He understands anyway, shaking his head and rocking his hips forward. “This is what happens to little girls who tease big, strong construction workers. You walk around with that tight little body. What do you think is going to happen? This.”
A deep thrust makes me gag, and I sputter around his cock, inelegant, defiled. “Wait,” I say, pushing away, shaking my head. I didn’t know how far I wanted the game to go, but now I know. All the way. That’s how far. And for that to happen I have to fight him.
And he has to fight back.
A cruel smile curves his lips. He reaches down to yank at the silky fabric of my camisole. Cool air brushes over my hard nipples. “What are we going to wait for?” he asks, mocking. “I can tell you want this. Look at your tits. They’re begging for me to touch them.”
He does more than touch them. He pinches my nipple. Hard.
