Losing Control (Kerr Chronicles #1)(29)
Author: Jen Frederick

“I think your c**k is deluding you. My hard limits aren’t very hard when it comes to money.”

“Fine,” he says impatiently. He flexes his fingers as if imagining how good my neck would feel being squeezed between them. “What else will do you for money? Will you come over here and suck my cock?"

“How much?” I say recklessly. His green eyes are glittering with anger. Or maybe with desire? I don’t really know, and I’m a little afraid to find out.

“How much do you charge?” He flings back.

It’s like we’re playing verbal chicken, neither one of us wanting to swerve off our stupid road regardless of the impending injury.

We stare at each other, the air around us so charged I’m surprised the whole place doesn’t explode. I start to rise from my chair and he shifts backward, his powerful thighs falling open. Are we really doing this? I hold my breath and sink down onto my knees between his legs. Our eyes are locked together and though I can’t read his clearly, he must see the disbelief in mine.

As I place my hands on his knees and then slide them slowly up his jean-clad legs, I admit that while I want him, this act will ruin whatever chance we have for something tender and meaningful. There’s a line here I’m breaching because if he pays me for sex, I’ll never feel like his equal. I’m not sure my actions are even sexual anymore.

This is a battle for control, and I’m not going to call a halt to it. If he lets it continue as if I’m some paid whore, we’ll be done. We might have great sex a couple of times, but it won’t ever be more than that. Certainly not the fulfillment of this great attraction he speaks of. Maybe I’m dumb for even thinking that his lines are anything more than rehearsed come-ons designed to get me to drop my panties and jump into bed with him.

And now that I’m on my knees and my hands are on his thighs creeping ever closer to his zipper, I’m wondering why I’ve even started this challenge. There is no winning here. There is no tenderness. No sweetness, only crass commercialism. But I can’t seem to stop from hurting both of us. Water splashes down my face onto the backs of my hands and slides off onto his jeans.

With a muffled curse, he reaches down and drags me into his lap. Burying his head in the crook of my neck, he tucks me close with one hand affixed to my waist and the other forked into my hair, his entire palm cupping the back of my head.

“No more,” he breathes. “I give.”

I wrap both arms around his shoulders, reveling in the solid muscle mass beneath my hands. I wipe my tears against his shirt as unobtrusively as I can, but we both know why he stopped.

He’s a beast, I guess, but he wants to be my beast. I don’t make the mistake of thinking I’ve tamed him though. We sit there like that—him holding me tight on his lap—for what seems like a long time before he presses his lips briefly onto my neck. Deciding he’s done baiting me for the night, he picks me up and carries me into the bedroom. Maybe he can sense my flagging energy. It’s way past my bedtime.

“I can walk, you know.”

“So can I.” He jiggles me a little in his arms, as if to say I weigh nothing, which isn’t true. “Isn’t it great how physically capable we both are?”

He tosses me on the bed and starts pulling off his shirt.

I’m tired, but I haven’t lost all sense yet. “Wait a second.” I hold up a hand.

He pauses and then gives a little shrug and finishes taking off his shirt. In the lamp light, the planes of his chest look golden, almost amber in color. It’s like looking at an ancient stone statue come to life, and it takes a lot of effort to not reach out and stroke my hands across the light mat of fur on his chest and follow the treasure trail down into the very worn jeans. When his hands move to start unfastening his jeans, I’m awakened from my sensual stupor. “What are you doing?”

“Getting ready for bed,” he says implacably.

“Here?” I say dumbly.

“Yes.” And he proceeds to shuck his jeans. Underneath he’s wearing slate-gray, silky boxer briefs that hug his very manly form. He’s half-aroused and the shape behind the fabric looks enormous. My vagina clenches in either excitement or trepidation. Both probably. “I usually sleep in the buff, but because it’s been a long day for both of us, I’ll keep my shorts on tonight.”

“You can’t sleep with me,” I squeak. “I’m not ready for that.”

“We’re sleeping, bunny. Nothing else,” he says and heads for the bathroom.

“But . . .” I trail off. “Is this because of what happened earlier?”

“No.” He comes out of the bathroom with a toothbrush in his mouth. Speaking around a mouthful of foam and water, he says, “I was always planning on sleeping with you tonight.” He disappears, and I hear him spit and then the faucet running. “Actually, I planned to pick up where we left off, but it’s too late now. We both have to get up in the morning.”

The door closes and I hear the flushing of a toilet and more running water. Then he’s done with his nightly bedtime routine, which I guess consists of brushing his teeth and peeing. Men. Totally unfair.

Pulling back the covers, he pats my ass again. “Don’t look so disappointed, bunny. I plan to f**k you until you pass out tomorrow night.”

I flounce out of bed like an outraged maiden and hide in the bathroom. I can tell there is no moving him, and right now I’m so tired that I give in. On the marble counter are all my bottles of personal care products, from my facial soap to my toner to my moisturizer. My outrage meter is so overworked that I can only sigh at this sight. I run through my nightly routine, which is far more extensive than Ian’s, and strip out of my confining spandex. It’s too late for a shower, so I grab a wash cloth to clean my underarms and between my legs. Realizing I don’t have my pajamas—an old, oversized Giants T-shirt that I filched from Malcolm’s house—I wrap a towel around my body and confront Ian. “Where are my clothes?”

“There’s a walk-in attached to the bathroom. Should be in there.” He leans up on one arm, the blankets falling aside to reveal his perfect chest. “Or you can wear this.”

He tosses me the blue T-shirt he had on earlier. Reflexively I catch it and hold it to my nose, breathing deeply of Ian Kerr. God, he smells so good. Over his shirt, our eyes meet. His have taken on a feral glow. “Wear the shirt, Tiny,” he commands. And this time my reaction is a purely sexual one.