Chapter 6 Out of Control

Cecilia

"Playing?" I batted my eyelashes innocently. "I'm not playing at anything, Mr. Winston. You're my former guardian, after all. Wouldn't be appropriate for us to do anything else."

I turned toward the door, then paused and looked back over my shoulder. "Oh, I almost forgot. I have plans tonight. I met a guy last week, and we're grabbing drinks." I let my smile turn sultry. "Might see where things go after that. You know how it is."

"Like hell you are." The words came out in a growl.

"Excuse me?" I turned to face him fully. "I'm twenty-two years old, Mr. Winston. Legal adult. You might be my former guardian, but now you don't get to control who I sleep with."

"The fuck I don't." He crossed the distance between us in two strides, backing me against the door. His hands slammed against the wood on either side of my head, caging me in. "You're not going anywhere near another man."

My heart was racing, but I kept my voice steady. "What are you going to do, lock me up? Last I checked, that's called kidnapping."

"I control your everything." His face was inches from mine, close enough that I could see the silver flecks in his eyes.

"That was illegal."

"That's protecting you from making stupid decisions." His gaze dropped to my mouth. "Like spreading your legs for some random asshole who doesn't deserve you."

"And you do?" The question slipped out before I could stop it.

Something flickered in his eyes. "No," he said quietly. "I don't. That's the whole fucking problem."

Then his mouth was on mine again, but this kiss was different. Desperate. Almost punishing. His tongue swept inside, claiming every inch of my mouth like he was trying to erase the very idea of anyone else touching me.

Damn it. I'm losing control.

The wet heat pooling deep inside my body threatens to drown what little clarity I have left, wave after wave of that overwhelming sensation crashing over me.

I try to push him away, my palms pressing against his chest, but my fingers have gone soft—boneless, useless.

This feeling of having my defenses breached inch by inch fills me with something close to despair. I was the one who started this game, yet now I feel like prey being toyed with by a predator, unable to muster even the most basic resistance.

His hand slid down my side, over my hip, gripping my thigh and hitching it up around his waist. The position put his erection directly against my core, and even through our clothes, the friction was almost too much.

"Arthur—" His name escaped my lips like a plea I didn't mean to make.

"Say it again." His voice was rough against my ear as his hips ground against mine. "Say my name."

I bit down on my lower lip, trying to hold back, but my body had other plans. My hips rolled against him involuntarily, chasing that friction, that pressure I'd been denying myself for four goddamn years.

"Fuck this," he growled, and suddenly my feet left the ground. He carried me to his desk, sweeping everything aside with one arm. Papers scattered, but neither of us cared.

His hands were everywhere—yanking down the straps of my dress, shoving the red fabric up around my waist.

Cool air hit my overheated skin, and then his fingers found the soaked lace between my thighs.

"Ceci." His eyes were dark. "You're fucking drenched."

I should've said something cutting, should've maintained some control, but all that came out was a broken moan as he ripped my panties aside and thrust two fingers inside me.

"Oh my god—" My back arched off the desk, hands scrabbling for purchase on the polished wood.

"That's it." His thumb found my clit, circling with just enough pressure to make me see stars. "Let me hear you."

He worked me with the precision of someone who'd memorized every inch of my body, who knew exactly how to make me fall apart.

And I hated how well he still knew me, hated how my body responded like it had been waiting for this—for him—all along.

The sound of his belt buckle was loud in the quiet office, and then I felt him—hot and hard and impossibly big—pressing against my entrance.

"Look at me." His hand gripped my jaw, forcing my gaze to his. "I want to see your face when I fuck you."

He pushed inside in one brutal thrust, and the stretch was almost too much, almost painful, almost perfect.

My nails dug into his shoulders, probably drawing blood through his expensive shirt, but he didn't seem to care.

"Fuck, you're so tight." He pulled out almost completely, then slammed back in. "Did you let anyone else touch you? In those four years?"

I wanted to lie, wanted to tell him yes, wanted to hurt him the way he'd hurt me. But my body betrayed me, clenching around him, and he read the answer in my silence.

"That's what I thought." His smile was dark, possessive, infuriating. "This pussy is mine. Always has been."

He set a punishing rhythm, each thrust hitting that spot deep inside that made my vision blur.

The desk creaked beneath us, probably leaving marks on the back of my thighs, but I couldn't think about anything except the coiling tension in my core.

"I hate you," I gasped out, even as my legs wrapped tighter around his waist.

"I know." He kissed me, swallowing my moans. "Hate me all you want, baby."

The orgasm hit me like a freight train. My entire body seized, inner walls clamping down on him like a vice as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over me.

I heard myself screaming—his name, curses, incoherent sounds I couldn't control.

I felt him swell inside me, felt his rhythm falter, and panic cut through my pleasure like ice water.

"Don't—" I shoved at his chest, suddenly frantic. "Don't you dare come inside me!"

For a split second he froze, confusion and hurt flashing across his face. Then instinct took over.

He pulled out—too fast, too rough—and his release painted my skin, hot spurts landing on my clit, my inner thighs, making me shudder with unwanted aftershocks.

The silence that followed was deafening.

My hands were shaking as I pushed myself up, ignoring the mess between my legs, the way my body still throbbed with the aftermath. I grabbed tissues from his desk, cleaning myself with jerky, angry movements.

"Is that it?" I kept my voice flat, bored even. "That's what I waited four years for? Honestly, the college boys I fucked were better. At least they had stamina."

It was a lie—a complete and utter lie—but I needed to hurt him. Needed to see him break the way he'd broken me that morning four years ago.

His jaw clenched so hard I heard his teeth grind. "College boys."

"Yeah." I fixed my dress, smoothing down the wrinkled fabric with hands that wouldn't stop trembling. "Lots of them. Young, eager, could go multiple rounds." I shot him a pointed look. "Unlike some people."

I watched his eyes darken, watched something dangerous flicker across his face. And then I noticed it—despite everything, despite just finishing, he was getting hard again. That thick length was already stirring, a drop of moisture beading at the tip.

Oh shit.

"You know what?" I grabbed my clutch from where it had fallen, backing toward the door. "You're pathetic. You're so fucking hypocritical. You send me away, tell me it was a mistake, and now you can't even—"

"Ceci." His voice was low, warning.

"Deal with it yourself." I yanked open the door. "I'm sure you have plenty of practice."