Wild Temptation (15 page)

I take a deep breath, making my chest heave. He doesn’t touch me. His forearms rest against the door on either side of my head and his hips hover just above mine. I still feel him—everywhere. His breath fanning across my lips. His thumbs flirting with my hair. His thigh brushing mine as he steps forward.

“You’re not the only one hiding things, Liv. You’re not the only one who thinks they’re unable to hold down something for more than one night.” He breathes the words over my mouth, his lips millimeters from mine. “I want to understand you. I want to know why you’re pushing me away when it’s not really what you want.”

I blink at him. “What if I want to know yours, too?”

Tyler dips his head and kisses the tender spot below my ear. “I’ll tell you mine if you promise to tell me yours,” he whispers.

“You first?”

He nods, pulling his head back, and looks at me. “You promise?”

“I promise,” I say on an exhale.

He pushes off the door and waves a hand over his shoulder for me to follow.

This whole conversation feels like something out of elementary school. Bargaining for what you want. Bribing. Promises.

Except, this time, the stakes are higher.

“Sit. Drink?” He pulls open his large fridge.

“Water, please. Driving,” I remind him when he glances at me.

“One glass won’t hurt you, Liv. And if you really don’t want to drive, I’ll call a car to take you home and bring you back in the morning to get your car.”

“I—”

“Love to fight me on every little fucking thing,” he finishes with a smirk. He hands me the wine, grabs a beer, and ushers me into his front room.

The brown, leather sofa curves around the corner of the room, and the glass coffee table in front of it has more than one mark on it. My lips quirk at the thought of him spilling something on it and wiping it with his hand, leaving the smears on the surface. There’s even an empty cookie bag on the table.

I raise an eyebrow at him.

“So I need to tidy a little. I wasn’t expecting company.” He takes my glass and sets it on the table. “Sit down.”

I ease myself down onto the plush sofa, but apparently I’m moving too slowly, because he grabs my waist and pulls me back. I shriek, clapping my hand over my mouth as I fall back onto the sofa. Tyler laughs, one of his arms still around me. I elbow him and smack his chest at the same time.

“You asshole.”

He grins. “It loosened you up, didn’t it?”

“Yeah,” I admit, pulling my legs up to my chest. “It did.”

“So.”

“So you said you’d go first. Tell me your secret, Tyler Stone.”

“I’m a sex addict.”

A
sex addict?

Another addictive personality? Oh, fucking shit. Just when I thought this situation couldn’t get worse, he admits that. And not just any addictive personality—one addicted to a physical act.

This cements in my mind that I can’t see him. How can I? He’s addicted to sex. I’m addicted to love. What a fucking hoo-haa.

I push away from him on the sofa, but this time, he doesn’t grab me back. He keeps his eyes on mine and talks.

“I’m aware of it, and I accept it. It’s not a problem for me—mostly. The problem isn’t the addiction. It’s what I want from sex. I want more than what one-night stands can give me, and I don’t mean a relationship. I want someone who’s not bothered about committing anything other than her body. I want—need—someone who can open herself to me and accept what I want. That I need more than just vanilla.”

“Is that… Is that why you said what you said to me?” I swallow.

He nods. “You’re fiery, Liv. I don’t believe you’re happy with good, old vanilla sex. At least not all the time.”

My dream flashes in my mind again. He’s right—if I were, I wouldn’t be dreaming of him tying me to my bedpost with a scarf while he goes down on me. I wouldn’t be dreaming of being blindfolded on my knees while I wrap my lips around his cock.

I reach out and grab the wine. My clit throbs at my thoughts. I take a long drink from the glass, somehow emptying it, and run my fingers through my hair.

“You’d be right,” I say, my throat like sandpaper despite the wine. “But that’s not the problem.” I stand, walking over to the window. I push aside the dark curtain and stare out at the city.

“Then tell me what it is, babe. I’m fucked if you don’t. There’s nothing I can do.” He comes up behind me and rests his hands on the windowsill, blocking me in. “I told you. Now it’s your turn.”

I push his arm away and spin out of his grasp, once again running my fingers through my hair as I struggle to put the words together in a sentence that’s oh so simple.

“What is the problem, Liv?”

I stop and close my eyes. “You’re addicted to sex”—I open them again—“and I’m addicted to love.”

He stops. Freezes. His eyes widen a tiny amount. Enough that I notice it.

“I’m addicted to love and people. I get addicted to the sounds of people’s voices and the touches of their hands. I get addicted to their habits, their quirks. I am in love with love.”

“How is that possible?”

I shrug. “If I knew, I wouldn’t be addicted to it, would I? But that’s it. That’s why I sent the text. Because I cannot get addicted again. Not to someone like you,” I whisper. “You’re too dangerous. You’re too tempting for me.”

“What if I’m willing to take the risk? What if my addiction to sex is more an addiction to sex with you than sex in general?”

“It’s not your risk to take!” My voice rises a few decibels. “It’s not your mind or your heart it fucks with. It’s mine, and I’m the one who has to take the fallout. I did it once before. I won’t do it again. I can’t. I can’t take that risk, no matter how much I want to. With you.”

He strides across the room and cups my face. He presses his lips to mine in a heated kiss that swirls my insides. I grip his sweater, holding myself to him despite knowing that it’s wrong.

“Feel that, baby girl? That’s not a risk. It’s a fucking certainty. You have no more power to stay away from me than I do you. Every day, every single day, I dream about you. About your body.” He drops one hand to my neck and the other to my waist. “About running my hands over you, kissing your skin, watching you come under me. And more. So much more, Liv.”

“What ‘more’?” I ask against my better judgment. I want to know.

“Will it make a difference?”

“Yes. No. Maybe. I don’t know.”

He takes a deep breath and his nostrils flare. He rests his face alongside mine, his fingers twining in my hair, and turns his mouth into my ear. “I dream about your hands tied to your bed with your legs open and your pussy bared to me. I dream about you on top of me, working my cock. I dream about you on your knees, your hands tied behind your back and my cock in your mouth.”

I draw in a sharp breath, my heart pounding ferociously. His words set my veins on fire, and I know it’s not just blood pumping around my body. It’s adrenaline and desire and pure, unadulterated lust.

“I dream about standing you in front of that mirror in your bedroom, flattening your hands against the wall, and fucking you from behind. I dream about smacking your arse then soothing it with my palm, and I dream about watching you watch yourself come.”

I tilt my face to his, almost desperately, and take his mouth. This kiss, for once, is entirely driven by me. As if, somewhere in my mind, I can rationalize that one kiss will take away all the bad shit, the fact that we both have addictive personalities that are worlds apart. As if one kiss can make my mind up for me.

He gets me.
He wants what I do. I don’t want to be dominated—I’m not submissive enough for that—but that doesn’t mean I don’t want something a little spicier than normal sex. What Tyler just put into words, what he just described, is everything I want.

I want someone not afraid to tell me what
they
want, and I want someone not afraid to put those words into fucking action. I want someone real and raw who won’t treat me like I’m a fragile, little doll in bed. I want someone like Tyler.

“Are you working tomorrow night?” he asks before kissing me hard.

“No,” I whisper against him.

“Good.” He cups my jaw, and the way his thumb slides along the curve of it forces me to open my eyes. He stares into them, his gaze full of heat and anticipation and promise. “Be ready at six p.m.”

“Ready for what?”

His lips tug up on one side, his smirk sexy and dangerous, filled with promise. “Me.”

I have butterflies. They’re forceful, churning my stomach until I feel sick. I barely slept last night—my mind was full of contradictions over whether sticking this thing out with Tyler is the right thing to do. I went back and forward so many times that I’m pretty sure I have mental whiplash.

In the end, I decided that it’s too late. I’m done. I already agreed to see him tonight. I can’t back out for a second time. Besides, regardless of the numerous red flags waving like crazy in my mind, I want this.

And in the end, that’s all it comes down to.

My phone buzzes from between the sofa cushions. I dig it out and pull up the text from Tyler.

I saw Day’s pictures of you.

And?

And you should consider wearing that pink camisole tonight. And by consider, I mean put it on now.

And the stockings?

I’m not a fan of white. It’s too innocent. Tan ones. With those nude Louboutins.

I smile at the screen. It soon drops from my face when I see the time. He told me to be ready for six p.m. It’s five to six and I’m nowhere near ready.
Shit
.

I scramble up and run into my bedroom. I locate the camisole in my closet and pull it out, throwing it on my bed while I find some stockings. Damn, damn, damn… Where are they? I rifle through my underwear drawer, finding them tucked at the back. Flapping them to uncrease them, I drop them on the bed next to the camisole and strip off.

My buzzer goes and I run through my apartment and grab the phone. “Hello?”

“Hello, Miss Warren? I’m here to collect you on Tyler Stone’s behalf.”

He sent a car? I didn’t agree to this shit. “Um, I wasn’t aware he was sending anyone.”

“It was a last-minute decision, ma’am. Are you ready?”

I look at my mismatched underwear and lack of stockings or shoes. Or dignity, really. “Give me a few minutes.”

I hang up at his, “Of course,” and run back to my bedroom. My phone vibrates next to me on the bed as I put the right panties on.

Don’t be late, Liv.

Fuck off.

I grin as the message sends.

Bring a scarf…

Bring a scarf? His words from yesterday fill my mind—about tying me up—and my heart thumps. Shit. I feel a dampness between my legs at the thought and grab my long raincoat from the closet. I tuck a scarf into the pocket and smile.

He wants to play, I’ll play.

Angus is curled on the sofa, asleep in a patch of weak sun, and a quick check of his bowl verifies that it’s full of food. Well, there’s a first.

I slip my feet into my new shoes and decide to take the elevator instead of the stairs. I mean, who wants to fall down the stairs in shoes as pretty as these? Not me.