A Week To Be Wild / Legal Seduction. JC Harroway

she’d given him in the bar. Her eyes—huge dark pools in the dim lighting of the corridor—beguiled him. His blind confidence wavered. He was used to commanding every aspect of his life, and this power exchange, while exciting, left him adrift. Would he be able to concede to her wishes, whatever they were? For more of her, he’d certainly die trying.

      But curiosity won.

      ‘What do you want?’

      He’d promised her a compromise, give and take, control. He’d do everything in his power to give her what she needed.

      She pushed inside the room, flipping on lights and kicking of her heels, revealing toes painted with deep red nail polish.

      As the door snicked closed behind him she turned.

      He’d been right. Their kisses had left her mouth gloriously swollen, and the slight flush of beard burn marked her chin and cheeks. She was more beautiful than ever, and his fingers itched to complete the transformation—to undo her hair, currently featuring in all his filthy fantasies, and strip her of her prim clothes, expose the soft, feminine curves he guessed lurked beneath.

      When she finally found her voice, it was so smoky he expected it to trigger the fire alarms.

      ‘What do you want?’

      That was easy to answer. A dream come true. ‘I want to touch you. All of you.’ He curled his fingers into his palms, his breath trapped behind his tight throat.

      She nodded, eyes heavy, the tip of her tongue touching her top lip. ‘I want you to sit there.’ She indicated an armchair in the corner by the windows.

      He nodded, but his feet seemed cemented to the carpet while his mind played catch-up. He’d showed his hand too eagerly. She planned to deny him. Could he handle this? He burned for her, and the chair she’d indicated might as well be some sort of medieval torture device or wired to the mains.

      She swallowed, her colour high. But it was not the flush of embarrassment, rather the glow of arousal.

      ‘I want you to watch me.’

      Fuck. She was trying to kill him. He was about to become a statistic. His throat closed tighter, his heart beating itself an escape path between his ribs.

      ‘I want that too.’ His voice was seriously strangled.

       Get a grip, man.

      He shrugged off his blazer and tossed it on the desk. His jeans were too tight, constricting his manhood, but he’d do what she asked, what he’d agreed to, in order to earn her trust. Olivia—enchanting, provocative, intriguing—was the ultimate reward and certainly worth the discomfort.

      He settled, sinking back into the upholstery, thighs spread as wide as the chair would allow. His hard-on was a stiff rod, pressing at the fly of his jeans. He forced his fingers to uncurl, resting them on the arms of the chair as he tried to slow his excited breaths. Whatever she was about to do would slay him. But he’d die trying to maintain the boundaries she’d demanded.

      His compliance was quickly rewarded. She undid the top few buttons of her silky blouse, revealing the spill of perfect breasts over the top of a lacy, pale peach bra. His eyes fought not to roll back in his head. He wouldn’t miss one second of the vision before him.

      Her chest rose and fell in cadence with his own. At least they were in this together. Suffering together.

      Staring him down, she hoisted up her skirt, bunching the fabric around her waist until her matching panties came into view at the juncture of her long, shapely legs. Her hands trembled slightly. If he hadn’t been watching her every move with almost frantic eyes, desperate to see everything, he might have missed that revelation.

      Was she nervous? Excited? Having second thoughts?

      Pain lanced his chest.

       Please don’t regret this. Please don’t stop.

      Fuck, she was a wet dream come true. Somehow this tease was twice as hot as if she’d stripped naked.

      But he didn’t have to wait long to see more of her. With a small sigh, she hooked her thumbs into the waistband of those panties and peeled them down her legs, dropping them without ceremony and settling on the edge of the bed.

      She faced him, vulnerable but still in control. Breathtaking, but still composed. Time slowed, stretching to infinity while he watched and waited and breathed.

      ‘Don’t move or I’ll stop,’ she whispered.

      A nod. He was incapable of speech.

      Just when he thought he’d shatter if he didn’t kiss her, touch her soon, she slid her thighs open. He tried to keep his stare fixed on hers, but he wasn’t the man he prided himself on being, because with a hissed ‘Fuck…’ he capitulated to his body’s needs, his eyes zeroing in on the patch of dark curls and her glistening sex.

      She was wet. Soaked.

      Two or three feet. That was all that separated them. In one stride he’d be there, touching her slick heat, kissing her gasps away, feeling the scrape of her nails as he worked her to orgasm.

      His own nails, blunt and useless, dug into the chair’s fabric, his knuckles tight with the force of staying put. His breath see-sawed through flared nostrils, and his mouth pressed into a grim line as he lifted desperate eyes to hers once more.

      She’d clearly decided he would comply, because with an aching slowness that tested every scrap of his substantial self-control she moved her hand between her legs, her fingers sliding into place over her clit.

      A slug of lust punched him in the chest.

      She gasped, her head falling back as if she was as close as him to slamming over the edge. She licked her lower lip, sultry eyes on him, and shifted, bent one leg up on the bed and braced the other on the floor, opening up the view to him.

      His cock strained, begging for release. He gripped the armrests tighter, clinging to prevent himself from ripping open his fly and joining her in self-pleasure. But she’d told him to sit, to watch, and this was the most erotic thing he’d ever witnessed.

      His breathing, now perilously fast, echoed around the room.

      She moved her hand slowly at first, tentatively, as if she’d forgotten the rhythm of pleasuring herself. Or perhaps she’d never done this before. Perhaps she was as blown away by her bold, uninhibited display as he was. Fuck. The thought of some other lucky bastard being treated to this show forced icy shards through his chest and he bit his tongue, the pain reminding him to stay seated when every nerve in his body relayed messages to his brain to move. To go to her.

      As her fingers picked up speed he lost his grip on sanity, his stare darting wildly between her pleasure-drunk face and her frantically circling fingers. She dropped back on her elbow, the edges of her blouse slipping open, revealing more of the lacy concoction concealing her breasts.

      He gritted his teeth. He resented her clothing now. It blocked what he instinctively knew would be a sublime body from his view. He made fists, the urge to tear the fabric from her curves so overwhelming his legs shifted, restless with inactivity.

      Her whimpers drew his gaze to her face, but his eyes flew back between her legs in time to see her slide a finger inside herself before returning to her clit. He’d been right. She was soaked. The quiet noise of slippery skin on slippery skin echoed inside his skull and her scent, rich and erotic, reached his nostrils across the small space separating them.

      He was losing it. His brain was shutting down. Not enough oxygen. Too much stimulation. Testosterone overload.

      She stared at him, her moans growing increasingly erratic. Breath catching. Lips parting. Thighs jerking.

      She was close.

      He was done.

      With a powerful lurch he flew from the chair, his whole body rejoicing, joining his addled mind until his head