It was unfamiliar and a little unnerving. But I liked it. Christ, how I liked it.
“If I told you to go back to that chair right now, you’d do it.” He spoke matter-of-factly, but I saw the challenge—and the mischief—flash in his eyes. “You’d sit in that chair and spread your legs. And if I asked you to touch yourself—to stroke and tease while I got hard watching your body grow wet and slick, so desperate to sink myself inside you that I couldn’t stand it anymore—if I told you to do that, I think you would.”
My mouth went dry, my body limp.
“Tell me the truth, Sloane. Would you do that for me?”
“Yes,” I whispered, because I already knew he would see a lie.
“Then take the deal.”
“You told me you don’t date the girls who work at the club.”
“I break all kinds of rules, Detective. But not in this case.”
I looked at him, confused. “What do you mean?”
“I’m not going to date you. I’m going to fuck you.”
A shiver ran through me, one I didn’t even bother to hide. “What exactly do you have in mind for me?” I asked.
“If I told you, it wouldn’t be as fun.”
I licked my lips. “Before, you talked about pleasure and passion and even a little fear.”
“I remember.”
“Did you mean it? Or were you trying to shake me because you knew I was a cop?”
“But you are a cop. You must know all about the impact of adrenaline. Of fear. How it heightens sensation, even the sensation of pleasure.”
“I don’t want to be tied up—”
“No,” he said, and the word was infinitely gentle. “I won’t. But I will take you to that edge, Sloane. And if you are willing, I’ll take you over.”
Our eyes locked. I’m not sure how long I stayed lost in the clear blue of his eyes. Then he spoke, softly but firmly. “That’s it. That’s the arrangement. Take it—and make me a very happy man.”
“Arrangement?” I repeated. “That sounds so polite and proper.”
“Are you suggesting I’m neither polite nor proper?”
“Not at all,” I said, then grabbed his collar and pulled my lips to his. “I’m saying flat out that I hope you’re not.” I kissed him hard, then leaned back. “When I agree to something, Mr. Sharp, I go all in.”
His brow quirked up. “I’m very pleased to hear it.”
He stood, then gave me his hand and helped me up. Slowly, he closed the jacket that I still wore, carefully fastening each button. Then he went to his desk and picked up his phone. “Greg, bring me Ms. Watson’s shoes. I imagine they’re still by Stage Four.”
Chapter Sixteen
Tyler went into the hall to meet Greg and, I presumed, to fetch the rest of my clothes as well.
But when he stepped back into the room, all he had were the shoes. “Let’s go,” he said. “Put these on and button that up.”
“Um, I kind of need my clothes.”
He leaned against the closed door. “No. You really don’t.”
I stood and buttoned the jacket, my eyes narrowed. “You’re really going to make me cross through The Drake in this?”
“One, you agreed to the terms.”
“I didn’t realize it applied to wardrobe,” I grumped, making him laugh.
“And two, we’re not heading to The Drake.” A touch of mischief lit his face. “Not yet.”
“Oh.” Fingers of dread—and, yes, of excitement and anticipation—curled through me. “Should I even ask?”
“You can,” he said. “But I won’t tell.”
He moved back to his desk and picked up the phone again. “One more thing, Greg,” he said into the handset as he tossed a ring of keys onto his desk. “Tell Cole the keys to the Ducati are in my office. I need to take the Buick tonight.”
He hung up and looked at me. “I’d lent him the car,” he said. “But I think you’ll be more comfortable in it than on the back of my bike.”
“I wouldn’t mind the bike,” I said, then glanced down at my outfit—or lack thereof. “But I’d need my clothes back.”
“We’ll have to put that on our overall to-do list.” As he looked at me, I saw the flicker of something hot on his face. Then he circled the desk and moved in front of me. I stood just a bit straighter, my body once again primed for his touch, going soft and ready simply from his proximity.
Without a word, he led me to the desk, picked me up at the waist, and sat me on the surface, my legs together and my feet dangling. I held my breath, already craving his touch.
“I think I’d like burning down the highway with your arms around me,” he said, as he took my thighs in each hand, then roughly spread them apart, sending sparks of anticipation shooting through me. Before I even had time to gasp, he’d tugged me closer, so I was barely on the table, and my sex was right there, open and ready for him.
“I wonder,” he said, as he cupped me with his hand. I drew in a shuddering breath, arching back, still so sensitive, so ready. “Would the bike’s vibration get you hot? Get you ready for me?” Slowly, he eased a finger inside me, then two, then three. I was so wet, so wanting, and my body clenched tight around him. His groan of satisfaction swept over me, and almost melted with pleasure.
“I’m always ready for you,” I whispered, then thought God help me, it’s true.
“Look at me,” he said, and once I did, I couldn’t look away. “That’s how I always want you from now on,” he said. “Hot and wet and always ready for me. I want you so wet from the thought of me that I can bend you over, tug your jeans down, and slide into you anytime I feel like it. I want to simply brush my hand over your cunt, and have you explode for me. I want your breasts to ache in constant anticipation of my touch. I want you so primed that I can take you over the edge with a single word. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I said, though my body was so hot—my mouth so dry—that I didn’t know how I managed to form even that simple word.
“Do you want that, too?”
“God, yes,” I said, my response little more than a moan.
His fingers were still inside me, teasing and playing. He withdrew, then brushed the pad of his thumb over my clit and—oh, god, yes—the orgasm burst through me. A small storm this time, but enough to rattle me, to flush my skin, to make me weak with both satisfaction and the desire for more.