Page 27 of Hard Deal
“Stop. Moving.” The words were short and sharp—more commanding than she’d ever heard from Caleb before. There was a seriousness in his tone, a presence that swelled in the air around them. “I don’t give a fuck about your underwear. Because as far as I’m concerned, it’s a barrier to me getting my cock inside you. And that is unacceptable in any form.”
Sweet. Baby. Jesus.
Imogen curled her hands around the railing, panting with need as he finally got a grip on the top of her underwear. Then he yanked them down all the way to her ankles. Strong hands guided her feet, helping to free her. The soft, floaty fabric of her dress smoothed over her bare backside and the sensation was startlingly erotic. It was like he’d sensitised her skin, so that even the gentlest brush felt like a thousand-volt shock.
He hadn’t asked her to stay still, but Imogen couldn’t bring herself to move. There was something about playing a passive role that eased the concerns in her mind. That quietened the shrieking doubts telling her she wasn’t going to be good enough for someone as experienced as Caleb.
“Spread your legs.”
Imogen gingerly moved her feet farther apart, unstable on jelly-like limbs. His hand slid up the back of her thigh, curving over her butt and squeezing hard.
“Perfect,” he growled into her ear.
Her dress swished as he moved behind her, the sounds lost in the thumping techno beat. Then his hands were back and the blunt head of his erection pressed against her entrance. His fingertips danced up her inner thigh, teasing her by inching forward and then retreating. Dancing in a way that had her begging.
“Please. More.”
The words evaporated into a hiss the second Caleb’s fingers parted her. Shutting her eyes, she let the sensation wash over her. There was nothing but flashing lights, the beat of the music and the pain-pleasure snap of being stretched by him as he entered her. The music swallowed her words and that meant she could say whatever she wanted without fear of repercussion or judgement or humiliation. She let the words fly—every four-letter word under the sun, and a few that probably came from another universe, as well.
Caleb’s front lined her back, his hips pressing into her backside with each stroke. His hands were everywhere—plucking her nipples, tugging her hair, holding the railing in front of her for extra leverage. It was dirty and hot and nothing she’d ever experienced before.
“Anyone could see us.” His lips were at her ear, his free hand snaking over her hip to dip between her legs.
Imogen’s dress bunched around her waist and she fisted the fabric in one hand to give him access. Sighing, she leaned back and let her head rest against his shoulder. He wasn’t rushing things, wasn’t mindlessly pounding away like her ex used to. No, Caleb had rhythm. His moves on the dance floor totally translated—he wasn’t too quick nor too slow, he balanced the perfect line between forceful and gentle. The man was the goldilocks of fucking.
She giggled at the thought. It was like he’d pulled the stopper out and all the naughty words she’d bottled up for the last twenty-something years had come flying out.
“Can you see all those people down there, Imogen?”
She nodded. “Yes.”
“Are you watching them while I fuck you?”
A tremor ran through her. “Yes.”
“What are you going to do if someone looks up and sees me playing with this perfect little pussy of yours?”
Her eyes fluttered shut as his fingers circled her clit. “Nothing.”
“Are you going to let them watch?”
She nodded, mostly out of her mind with lust and the pressure of the orgasm welling inside her.
“What if they want to come up here and get a better look?”
She knew it was bad to want this. What if someone she knew came up those stairs? What if it was someone from work? She’d be caught with her legs spread, half-undressed while the guy she was supposed to avoid screwed her senseless.
But she was all in with this fantasy—hook, line and sinker.
* * *
It was entirely possible that Caleb was in a coma right now and this was a drug-induced dream. Because how else was he lucky enough to get the girl of his literal dreams writhing beneath his hands while they fucked in the middle of a nightclub? The thrill of knowing they could be caught made his cock hard enough to hammer nails.
Imogen’s blond hair tumbled over his chest, her head resting against him. She was wet and hot as a summer storm, and a tight fit. Her muscles clamped down on him as he thrust in and out, keeping his pace steady so he didn’t reach the finish line too quickly. But everything about this was his catnip—the semipublic location, the spontaneity of it. And Imogen.
“The thought of having an audience gets you all hot and bothered, doesn’t it, baby?” He curled his fingers over her damp sex, teasing her. “Who would have known you were such a sexy little minx? You hid it so well.”
He continued playing with her clit while his other hand came up to her throat, tipping her head back so he could see her face. Her mouth was slack, her eyes hooded.