Chapter 72

CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

ASHLEY

The first touch of his tongue against my clit sets off explosions through my entire body.

How can something so wrong feel so good?

His hands curve over around my thighs, and he lifts one of my legs to rest over his shoulder. The move opens me up and gives him better access to me, and he takes full advantage of it.

My fingers curl into his hair, nails scraping against his scalp, as he licks, and sucks at my already-sensitive clit. He feasts on me like a man starved, and I can barely withstand the assault on my senses.

My heart is hammering, it's hard to breathe. It's harder to think , and when that little voice whispers through my head, telling me that I shouldn't be doing this, it's silenced by the waves of pleasure he's causing.

It doesn't matter what's gone between us at this moment. It doesn't matter that he hates me. It doesn't matter that I hate him.

Do I hate him?

All that matters is his mouth, his tongue, and the high I'm speeding toward. When it hits, I try to pull his head away, but he growls and the sound vibrates against my skin, increasing the intensity of the orgasm he's pulling from me.

I'm panting, sobbing. I'm clutching at his hair, his shoulder. I'm begging for him to stop, to continue. I'm pleading for more.

He ignores my whimpers, and continues to lick, and flick, and suck, and nip, while my hips buck, and I writhe against his mouth, as one orgasm turns into a second.

When he pushes one finger inside me, I throw my head back, sucking in lungfuls of air, and try to wrestle back control of my traitorous body.

I'm in sensory overload. I can't think. Can't function. All I can focus on is the way he slides his finger in and out of my body, in time with the laps of his tongue.

Nothing else matters.

And then time stops, stands still, and I balance on the edge of the chasm.

My nails dig into his shoulder, and he laughs, a ragged sound that I feel through my entire body.

"I want to see you fall." His words are a rough whisper. "Don't fight it."

He adds a second finger to the first, and his thumb sweeps over my clit. "Fall for me, Firecracker."

And I do.

I freefall over the edge of the cliff.

While I'm still falling, he gets to his feet, and lifts me up into his arms. I'm a limp, sodden mess, with no fight left in me, so I don't even try to stop him, and he carries me back through the bedroom, and places me on the bed.

I expect him to join me, but he stands there, looking down at me. Then he nods.

One long finger strokes over my cheek, along my jaw, around my lips. He leans forward and kisses me. It's almost tender, gentle , and over before it really begins.

"Go to sleep."

He straightens, and walks back into the bathroom. The door closes behind him, and the faint line of light beneath the door disappears.

As the tremors wracking my body slowly fade, as the heat of passion dissipates, self-disgust takes its place.

What did I just do?

Why did I do it?

And why didn't he take it any further?

Rolling onto my side, I draw my legs up to my stomach. My thighs are wet, my heart is still racing.

I can't even blame the wine. I sobered up hours ago.

How am I going to face him in the morning? What is he going to say?

My last thought before falling into a fitful sleep is how is he going to use what just happened against me?

When I next open my eyes, the sun is shining through the curtains. It takes me a second or two to wake up, but the moment I do the memories from the night before flood my mind.

I sit up, and look around.

The bathroom door is wide open, the light is off, and I can't hear any noise from within the room. At the end of the bed, my pajama pants are neatly folded.

My stomach churns.

He must have come in while I was still sleeping, and put them there.

How long did he stand there and watch me sleep?

The thought sends a shot of anxiety through me.

I'm not looking forward to going downstairs and facing him. But the sooner I do it, the sooner it's over with.

Throwing back the sheets, I swing my legs off the bed, and my eyes catch on the bottle of water on the nightstand. Beside it there are two small white pills, and a folded piece of paper.

My hand is shaking when I pick up the note.

Tylenol and water for your hangover. The interview is at twelve. Don't be late.

It's not signed, but the bluntness of the message makes it clear it's from Zain.

I uncap the water, swallow the pills, then stand up.

I have no idea what time it is, but since he isn't knocking down the door and threatening me, I'm going to assume I have time to take a shower … in the room where things I never want to think about again happened.

I twist my hair up into a knot at the back of my head, grab clean clothes and underwear from my suitcase, and go into the bathroom from hell.

There's no trace of Zain ever having been in there. No clothes, no bedding, nothing. I avoid looking at the sink where that happened, and keep my focus trained on the shower.

Which is no better, because that other thing happened in there, and it's hard not to see Zain standing under the water, head thrown back, hand fisting his dick.

Oh my god! Stop thinking about it!