Though…
I wasn’t alone.
Again, Weston was behind me. Close. Too close. I fumbled in my bag, trying to find my room key when a hand snaked around my waist and rubbed along the top of my skirt. I knew I needed to nip this shit in the bud, but my body reacted insanely to his touch. My breathing grew shallow.
Weston’s hand traveled up my stomach and stopped at the underwire of my bra. I swallowed, knowing I needed to say something before it was too late.
“I despise you,” I hissed.
Weston responded by cupping my left breast and squeezing hard.
“I despise you, and that thing you call a dick that is trying to flatter me with a half-ass, lame erection pushing against my ass right now.”
He leaned closer and reached around to cup my other breast. “Feeling’s mutual, Fifi. But I know you remember that thing I call a dick is a fuck of a lot bigger than the little playwright had tucked between his legs—the little playwright whose inadequate dick is probably buried inside your cousin right about now.”
I clenched my jaw. Fucking Liam. “At least he didn’t have diseases. You probably have every STD in the book from whoring around Las Vegas.”
Weston responded by pushing his hips into my ass. His hot erection felt like a steel pipe trying to burst through his pants.
But, God, it felt good.
So hard.
So warm.
Twelve years ago came flooding back. Weston was hung like a horse, and even at eighteen, he’d known exactly what to do with it.
“Let’s go inside,” he growled. “I want to fuck you so hard that you have trouble sitting in our meetings tomorrow.”
I closed my eyes. A battle waged within me. I knew it would be a colossal mistake to get involved with Weston, especially with the war raging between our families. But damn…my body was on fire.
It wasn’t like we had to be friends.
Or like each other, for that matter.
I could just use him this once.
Get my rocks off and go back to keeping my distance tomorrow.
I shouldn’t.
I definitely shouldn’t.
Weston pinched my nipple, and a spark shot through me.
Fuck it.
Fuck Liam.
Fuck my father.
Fuck Weston. Literally.
“Ground rules,” I rasped. “Don’t kiss me. And only from behind. You don’t come until after I do, or so help me God, I’ll snap that thing between your legs right from your body. And you use a goddamned condom, because I don’t want whatever you’re currently on antibiotics for.”
Weston nipped at my ear.
“Ouch!”
“Shut up. And I have some rules, too.”
“Rules? What rules do you have?”
“Don’t expect me to stay after. You come. I come. I leave. In that order. You don’t talk, unless you’re telling me how good my cock feels inside of you. And those pointy-as-fuck shoes you’re wearing stay on. Oh, and if I make you come more than once, tomorrow you wear your hair up.”
I was so aroused I couldn’t even stop to think about what I was agreeing to. I just wanted it…wanted him. Now.
“Fine,” I bit out. “Now get inside, and let’s get this over with already.”
Weston took the key out of my hand and opened the door. He guided me in, not very gently, and pushed me against the wall. We were barely inside, and my cheek was already pressed against the wallpaper.
“Take my cock out,” he growled.
I hated being told what to do, especially by him.
“Am I supposed to be Houdini? I’ll need to turn around to do that.”
Weston’s chest had been leaning firmly against my back, and he released some of the pressure, taking a half step back so I could turn around. I wrapped my hand around his thick, bulging erection through his pants and squeezed. Hard.
Weston hissed.
“Take your own cock out,” I growled.
A wicked smile spread across his face. He reached down, unbuckled his pants, and yanked down his zipper. Then he grabbed my wrist and slid my hand into his boxers.
Oh God.
The smooth skin was so hot and hard. And thick. I’d never been so turned on in my life. Though I wasn’t about to let him know that. Reining in the emotions sparking through me, I locked my eyes with his and gave him a rough jerk up and down.
Weston’s eyes gleamed. He ran his tongue over his bottom lip and spoke with a strained voice. “We’ll call it even for sticking me with the tab for your dinner and drinks.”
My brows drew together. I wasn’t sure what he was talking about until he grabbed my silk blouse with two hands and yanked. It ripped open, the fabric tore, and more than one button pinged against a wall somewhere.
“It’s a four-hundred-dollar shirt, asshole.”
“I guess I’ll have to buy you more dinners then.”
His big hands groped at my chest. He used his thumbs to push down the lacy fabric of my bra, and my breasts eagerly spilled over.