Desperate games, p.6
Desperate Games, page 6
part #1 of Mergers & Acquisitions Series
Still, the moment is ripe with anticipation, and I feel sweat beading on my brow as I wait. It’s killing me not to push inside, but I manage to stay still as she makes up her mind.
“Tell me,” I repeat.
“Yes, I want your cock. I need you to make me come on your big dick, Remy. Please,” she says.
And I’m through waiting.
I push inside.
Andy moans.
So do I.
I’m already half out of my mind, and I still have most of my clothes on.
Not for long.
She sits up, wrapping her legs around me as she pushes my waistband down like a woman possessed, unbuckling, unzipping, tugging me completely free as I kick off my button down and tie.
My cock thumps inside of her, but I’m not moving until I’m touching as much of her body as I can with my own.
Her eyes go wide as she traces my tattoos, and I have one second to bask in the glow of her attention before I can’t take it anymore.
“You’re so damn sexy,” she breathes.
“You too, Baby,” I rasp, pulling out all the way then lining myself back up.
“God, I forgot how good this feels.”
“Yeah? I’ll make sure you never forget this time,” I grunt.
Then I ram inside her.
Deep. Tight. Wet. Perfect.
Home.
And she implodes.
That’s two.
Andy arches, clings to me, her pussy still squeezing as her orgasm crescendos.
I fuse my lips to hers, and she moans into my mouth as I hold still, allowing her to come down a little before I begin to thrust, slow at first.
Then I go harder, and her nails dig into my back. Her hips meet mine like we’re dancing to a rhythm only our bodies understand.
My mind races with how good this feels and how much I want it to last—not just the moment—this. Us.
The front door’s still unlocked.
The windows are open.
And I don’t give a fuck.
Because the only thing that matters is Andrea.
The way she wraps around me like we were made for this.
The way her body pulses around mine like she doesn’t want to let go.
The way she sobs my name when she comes a third time—and drags me right over the edge with her.
It’s not just sex.
It never was.
And as I hold her in my arms, sweat-drenched and shaking, I know this isn’t the end.
It’s the beginning.
Chapter Ten-Andrea
Still That Night
I should ask him to leave.
Really. I should.
Because this? This is too good.
Too tempting.
Too dangerous.
It’s the kind of night that cracks things open.
The kind that leaves marks.
And not just the good kind—the bruises from his hands on my hips, the sting of his teeth at my shoulder, the faint ache that’s already blooming low in my belly from the way he owned my body like it belonged to him.
No, I’m talking about the other kind.
The kind of marks that linger where no one can see them.
The kind that sneak past the lines you swore you’d never cross.
Because that man? That beast? That fucking god of a bodyguard with a body full of muscles and ink and a gaze that could bring me to my knees?
He makes my body sing.
And worse?
He makes me want things I swore I wouldn’t.
Like hope.
Like forever.
Which is insane, because this isn’t love.
This was never supposed to be love.
It’s biology. A mission. A plan.
Operation: Get Knocked Up by a Grade-A Genetic Jackpot Before I Turn Thirty-Three and My Ovaries Stage a Coup.
Catch feelings?
No. That’s not part of the deal.
But even as I try to convince myself of all the reasons this is wrong—he’ll leave, he always does, I barely know him, he’s too intense, too much, too everything—I feel his mouth again.
Remy leans down, still bare and sweat-slicked and devastating, and kisses me like the world has gone quiet.
Like we’ve stepped into some sacred pocket of time where only the two of us exist.
Slow. Deep.
A kiss that undoes me.
That cracks the armor I didn’t even know I was still wearing.
And then?
Oh hell.
I feel it.
Him.
That gloriously long, thick cock of his, already hard again, pressing against my thigh like a loaded weapon.
My breath catches in my throat.
I blink up at him, dazed.
“You’re showing off now,” I murmur, laughing a little despite the emotional war inside me.
His lips twitch into that sinful, smug grin that should be illegal in at least three countries.
“Nah, Baby. I just want you,” he says, voice all smoke and gravel and filthy promise. “But I’m thinking we go to the bedroom this time.”
Before I can form a coherent response, he’s on his feet.
And holy hell.
There he is—all of him.
The full Remy Falco experience.
He’s a giant. Easily six-six, maybe more.
All carved muscle and heavy shoulders and taut, inked-up flesh.
He looks like he belongs in a gladiator arena or one of those dark fantasy book covers I secretly read on my tablet.
Sculpted abs. V-cut hips. Tattoos that whisper stories I’m not ready to hear.
There’s Latin inked on his ribs—Memento Mori.
A raven across his throat, its wings outstretched like it’s protecting him. Or warning everyone else.
And right there, over the swell of his shoulder—a tiny red heart.
The only splash of color on that battlefield of a body.
I don’t have time to ask.
Because suddenly—he’s lifting me. Me.
Like I weigh nothing.
Like I’m a feather, not a full-grown, curvy woman who does not get swept off her feet. Ever.
“What are you doing?” I ask, stunned, my arms flying around his neck automatically.
He growls. Actually growls.
“I told you. We need a bed this time.”
My brain short-circuits.
My heart? Free-falling.
My pussy? Already wet again.
And when he lays me down on the mattress, brushing the hair from my face with more gentleness than a man like him should be capable of, I know I’m doomed.
“Now be a good girl,” he murmurs, fingers trailing down the slope of my spine, “and roll over for me.”
My breath stutters.
Because I do it.
Without question.
Without hesitation.
Like I was meant to obey him.
And as I go to all fours, feeling the shift of the sheets, the cool air on my flushed skin, and the heat of him behind me again—I wonder if I just made the biggest mistake of my life.
Or the most honest choice I’ve ever made.
Because maybe I don’t just want his baby anymore.
Maybe I want him.
But that? That’s a dangerous fucking thought and I push it away, far and fast.
“Head down, Baby. Ass up. That’s it. Gonna fill you so good. Won’t stop till my cum is dripping down these pale thighs.”
A shiver rolls down my spine.
Fuck. Yeah, I listen to his instructions.
I don’t even hesitate.
All fours, knees sinking into the mattress, hands braced flat against the bedspread like I’m waiting for judgment.
Or maybe salvation.
I don’t know what I expect. But it’s definitely not the way his hands glide down my back like he’s mapping me. Worshipping me.
From shoulders to ankles, his touch is reverent and hungry all at once.
“Look at you. This fucking ass, your sweet cunt glistening for me,” he groans, voice vibrating with something primal. “Fuck.”
His breath ghosts over my skin.
I’m so damn needy, my pussy is clenching on air, and I wonder if he can see how wet I am. Is it dripping down my thighs?
I think it is—but I can’t do more than think, because I feel something.
“Oh!”
I gasp as his teeth sink gently into one cheek.
The sting makes my whole body clench, and I swear I hear him growl.
He soothes the bite with a kiss, then two. Then he’s kneading my flesh, slow and sensual, like I’m his favorite meal and he’s taking his time.
His fingers trail lower.
Teasing.
Testing.
When he slips one finger between my cheeks, circling my hole with just enough pressure to make me gasp again, I feel my face go hot.
“Remy—”
“Not tonight. I’m not gonna fuck you here yet,” he murmurs, dragging his fingers lower, sliding through where I’m already soaked for him. “But soon.”
“Jesus,” I breathe, hips rocking back into him instinctively.
“Right now?” he rasps behind me, voice low and jagged with need. “Right now, I need to feel this sweet, tight pussy quiver around my dick. Need to pump you full of my seed.”
My breath catches—shallow, sharp.
God.
I want that. I want it so bad it hurts.
My hands grip the edge of the mattress, knuckles white, spine bowed, body open and waiting.
Then, I feel it. A flicker of panic. A rush of adrenaline behind my ribs.
Does he know?
My eyes widen as I stare into the shadows of the room, mind racing. Could Remy possibly know what I’m trying to do? That I want this—him—to be more than just pleasure?
That I want him to knock me up?
All those filthy, possessive things spilling from his lips—filling me, breeding me, marking me—they shouldn’t make my pulse race like this.
Shouldn’t make my thighs tremble or my core clench like I’ve been waiting my whole life to hear those words.
But they do.
They really fucking do.
And maybe he does know.
Maybe something deep in that primal, dominant mind of his senses what I haven’t said aloud.
That this isn’t just about the moment for me.
It’s about the after.
The consequence.
The baby.
But I don’t say a word. I can’t.
Because that’s the moment he pushes forward.
Inch by inch.
Thick. Hot. Hard.
My jaw falls open. A helpless sound leaves my throat. Not a scream. Not a moan. Something caught between prayer and surrender.
Every inch of him stretches me, fills me, claims me.
I can feel the tremble in his arms as he holds himself back.
The heat of his skin as it collides with mine.
The low, ragged groan he lets out when he bottoms out—when there’s nowhere else to go, nowhere else to be but inside me.
“Fuck, Andy,” he pants, bending low until his chest brushes my back. “You feel like heaven. Like you were made to take every inch of me.”
My body reacts before my mind can.
I arch into him. Press back.
Beg silently for more.
He doesn’t make me wait.
He sets a rhythm—deep and slow at first. Torturously controlled.
Every stroke deliberate. Every thrust a silent promise.
His hands slide over my hips. My waist. One finds my breast, squeezing just enough to make me gasp. The other presses over my lower belly, fingers splayed, almost reverent.
“Right here,” he murmurs, his voice barely a breath, but it brands me. “Right here’s where I’m gonna leave it. Gonna fill you so deep it sticks.”
A shiver rolls through me, unstoppable.
Because that part of me—that dark, desperate part that came up with this reckless plan—is singing with joy.
And the rest of me?
The part that craves more than just his body?
That part is terrified.
Because Remy Falco is everything I never let myself want.
And if I’m not careful, this won’t just be about making a baby.
It’ll be about falling in love.
I close my mind off to those thoughts. I don’t want to think at all.
I just wanna feel.
Lucky for me, Remy is a master at making me feel.
“Gonna be a good girl for me, Andy?” he whispers, rocking his hips just enough to make me moan. “Gonna come on this cock like you did before?”
I bite my lip, trying to form words—but all I can do is nod.
Because I will.
And he knows it.
I try to stay in control of my breathing. Of my thoughts. Of my heart.
Because I can’t afford to confuse things.
This isn’t love.
This isn’t forever.
This is a plan.
A hot, ridiculously well-built plan with the voice of sin and hands that worship like prayers—but still. Just a plan.
But when he presses in deeper, his fingers digging into my hips like he can’t get close enough, I forget all of that.
Every last ounce of logic slips through my fingers like silk.
My body arches into him on instinct, like it knows something my brain keeps trying to deny. Like it’s already made a decision I can’t take back.
“You feel that?” he pants behind me, voice wrecked. “How perfect you fit me?”
I squeeze my eyes shut.
Don’t catch feelings, Andy.
Don’t confuse heat with heart.
Don’t mistake chemistry for connection.
But his rhythm is relentless, deep and hungry, the kind of movement that demands surrender.
He kisses down my spine between thrusts, hot lips trailing heat as he murmurs things I can’t even process.
“Good girl,” he groans when I cry out. “Just like that. So damn perfect for me.”
Perfect for him.
I wish.
Wait—do I wish that?
I dig my fingers into the bedspread, trying to hold on. To something.
But it’s all slipping—my control, my caution, my composure—everything is slipping away under the weight of his body, the grind of his hips, the way he moves inside me like he knows every secret I’ve never spoken aloud.
“Remy,” I gasp, and it sounds like a warning—but it isn’t. Not really.
It’s a prayer.
He stills, just for a breath.
His palm slides around to my belly, pulling me back into him like he wants to own every inch of me.
“I’ve got you,” he whispers against my ear. “Let go.”
And I do.
I fall apart around him, all thought burned away in heat and friction and need.
My name tumbles from his lips as he follows, one final grind of his hips sealing the moment between us in sweat and something dangerously close to devotion.
Afterward, I’m trembling—spent and sore and utterly undone.
He doesn’t move for a long time.
He just holds me, arms wrapped around my middle, lips pressed to my shoulder like he can’t let me go.
And I can’t help it, I close my eyes and pretend.
Pretend this is more than it is.
Pretend he won’t walk away when this is over.
Pretend I’m not already in deeper than I ever meant to be.
Then, I do what I always do when shit gets hard.
I close myself off, flip that switch from girl who feels everything to girl who feels nothing, and I shove him right out the door.
Because the truth is terrifying.
The truth is, I’m a fucking liar.
And even if I get what I want out of this?
It still might break my heart.
Chapter Eleven-Remy
A Few Months Later
If I’d been in the country another twelve hours, maybe things would’ve gone differently.
Maybe I would’ve talked some sense into her.
Maybe I would’ve stayed in that too-small apartment, peeled her out of those bamboo sheets again, and made her admit what we both knew—that what happened between us wasn’t just some goddamn fling.
But the call came, and I had to go.
No time for long talks or long goodbyes.
Josef Aziz himself had pulled me in, tasking me with heading a detail for one of Sigma International’s highest-priority VIPs.
High-level, high-stakes, and halfway around the world.
The exact kind of test I’d been waiting for—one that would prove I had the chops to lead elite units the way I’d trained them.
And maybe, just maybe, it gave me the perfect excuse not to deal with the ache Andrea Ramirez left behind.
Still, even three months later, I haven’t stopped seeing her face.
Not once.
I close my eyes and there she is—chin tilted high like a goddamn queen, eyes cold and hard like she didn’t just spend the night clinging to me like I was the only thing anchoring her to this planet.
Like she hadn’t whispered my name like a prayer while I was buried inside her, shaking with the effort it took not to go for broke and tell her how much I wanted to fucking breed her right then and there.
Hell, I jerk off regularly to that very fucking thought. And yeah, I’m man enough to admit it.
Picturing Andy swollen with my baby? Biggest fucking turn on ever.
But then—like I meant nothing—she looked me in the eye and tore my dreams apart.
“This was fun. But we don’t have anything else to talk about.”
Bullshit.
We have everything to talk about.
Like how my hands still remember the feel of her hips when I held her down and made her take every inch of me.
Or how my mouth still waters when I think about how fucking sweet she tasted—every inch of her, like honey and sin and something that was always meant to be mine.
God. I wanted to keep her.
Not just fuck her.
Not just make her come until she couldn’t remember her name.
But fill her. Mark her. See her round with my kid. Watch her walk into a room wearing my name and a growing belly—our belly—and know the world would see her and know she was claimed.
