by Emily Snow
“You play, correct?” he asks.
“You’re not challenging me, are you?” He nods slowly, dropping his gaze to my breasts. My nipples tighten beneath his intense stare, so I hug my arms over my chest. “How do you know I play?”
“I do my research, remember?” He pulls my fingers into his, and my stomach flutters as I follow him away from the glass wall and onto the balcony. “You were on your school’s team your freshman year of high school.”
“I don’t know whether to be flattered or creeped out. Do you also know my social security number and blood type? Oh, and what about my old Gmail password? I locked myself out months ago.”
“No, but if you give me fifteen minutes I can find out.” Holy crap, is he kidding? A furtive smile dances at the corners of his full lips, and he holds out the chair for me. “Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m not going to cancel the deal, but I will play you for it.”
A shockwave pulses through my body, and I nearly miss the seat as I sit down on the edge of it. “What did you just say?”
“For every piece you capture,” he whispers, kneeling down to brush strands of hair off my neck before softly kissing my nape, “I’ll knock a week off our arrangement. If you beat me, we’re finished. Just like you’ve requested.”
Sixteen pieces and each one a week I can earn back. He’s giving me the chance to nearly eradicate the entire agreement.
The man kissing my shoulders and causing the tiny hairs on my arms to stand on end is not just wickedly handsome, he’s also clinically insane.
Rubbing my hand over the back of my neck when he stands upright and walks to the other side of the table, I run my tongue over the middle of my lips. “How on earth did you come up with this idea?”
“Veronica’s mother taught me how to play when I was a boy—she was our nanny. When she wanted to make a deal with me that I wouldn’t budge on, we’d battle it out over a game of chess.”
This is an unexpected look into his personal life, and before I ask more questions about his newest proposition, I decide to see if he’ll tell me anything else. “Were you any good?”
Shrugging, he sits down. “Decent. Mrs. Palmero always beat the shit out of me.”
“I can’t imagine you being just decent at anything.”
“Then make the first move so you can find out on your own.” He touches one of the black pawns on his side of the board. “What do you have to lose?”
When it comes to Graham, I have plenty to lose with every single move I make. That scares me senseless. Plucking one of my own pawns off the board, I shift it from hand to hand. “What happens if and when you capture one of my pieces, or if you beat me?”
Because surely, he has to get something out of this. Graham wouldn’t make this kind of offer without thinking about himself first.
He grins slowly, the anticipation in his expression a warning if I’ve ever seen one. “You’ll hand me an article of clothing, starting with that festive fucking sweater I’ve wanted to rip off since you came inside. If I get you naked before you can beat me—or if I trap your King—I win. If I win, you. Are. Mine.”
There’s something about the way he says those words that races a spark of electricity through my veins, causing tingles in my fingers and toes. As much as I try to convince myself that I want out of this deal, I can’t deny my body’s reaction to the possessive lilt of his voice or the way he looks at me like he can see right through my ... festive fucking sweater.
Staring away from him to give myself a chance to collect my thoughts, I breathe in and out slowly until I can speak to him without my voice faltering. “Even if I don’t beat you, I still get to knock weeks off the agreement if I capture any of your pieces?”
“Yes.”
Before I can stop myself, the next words out of my mouth are, “Deal, but I’m putting my coat back on.”
EIGHTEEN
ELLE
When I was nine, my parents left me with my maternal grandparents while they took Zach to a youth leadership conference in Vermont. I was bummed to stay behind—resorting to behaving like a spoiled brat. My grandfather, a former district attorney, had quickly come up with a solution to occupy my time and challenge my brain long enough to stop my sulking. He’d turned off the TV and had me follow him to the sunroom of the Leesburg house my mother had grown up in. I’d groaned at the chessboard he’d set up, but Grandpa Sutton refused to let me go back to watching television until I’d at least given it a try.
While teaching me the basics, he’d explained how he had learned shortly before leaving for Vietnam. After the first game—in which I lost terribly—I had intended to quit, but then he’d said something that made me freeze in the doorway.
“You’re much better than Cheryl was when I tried to teach her.” When curiosity got the best of me, and I sat back down across from him, he shrugged. “I tried teaching your mom when she was about your age, but she never quite got the hang of it.”
Knowing chess was something my beautiful, perfect mother hadn’t accomplished had lit a fire under my ass. By the time my parents and brother returned to take me home, I was beating my grandfather. I’d even done well the year I played in high school—when my purpose for joining the team was for extracurricular points on college applications.
Tonight, however, I’ve played a losing game.
The proof of that is in the two black pieces sitting to the left of my side of the board and the giant pile of clothing on the floor by Graham’s feet.
“I thought you said you were decent,” I point out through a frown, and he lifts his shoulders, which look even broader than usual in his white tee.
“I’m a politician, Ms. Courtney. Twisting the truth is in my DNA.”
I shift in my seat, trying to find the perfect angle to hide my nipples from his scorching hot stare. “The fact you have no problem admitting this to me makes me feel even worse for your constituents.” Sighing, I nod to the board. “Your move.”
And he makes it, looking me right in the eye as he slides his knight forward. My heart sinks to the pit of my stomach. He’s just bent me over and screwed me hard.
“Checkmate,” he drawls, reaching his large hand across the table. He crooks two fingers. “The panties.”
“It’s not over,” I argue, but he shakes his head and touches his knight, bishop, and rook—all of which surround my king and make winning impossible.
“Panties. Now.”
Standing, I curl my bare toes against the cold floor and shimmy the white cotton panties down my hips. His eyes, which had seemed to darken a few moves before when I handed over the matching bra, now look pitch black. “Here.” I toss the underwear at him.
With a smug grin, he dangles them from his fingertip. I slam back down in my seat and cross my legs tightly together, hugging my arms over my chest to cover my breasts. Across from me, he’s pensive.
In my completely naked state, it’s unnerving.
“What now?” My voice wavers, but I keep talking because I’m so irritated with him for kicking my ass. “You sniff my underwear and gloat about beating me?”
“I’m not a thirteen-year-old boy rummaging around in a locker room, Ms. Courtney. I don’t sniff panties.” But I watch in mortification while he runs his thumb over the center of the fabric. He tosses them to the floor, where they land in the same pile as my clothes, earrings, and shoes. “I want the real thing. The pussy behind the soaked cotton.”
Heat engulfs my whole body at his words. “Do you have to make it sound like a water gun?” Nodding, he grins like he’s the king of the world, and I clear my throat. “You spent the last hour—the entire game—explaining in detail the thoughts running through your head. Of course, I’m ... affected.”
He slides his chair around to me, ripping a gasp from my throat when he touches my bare knees. “Open your legs.”
“Why?”
“Because I won, and a deal is a deal.”
When I part my thighs slowly, he stares unblinkin
gly at my sex until I snap my knees back together. His lips thin into a disapproving line.
“I don’t want modesty, dove. I want you writhing-in-your-seat-legs-wide-open-humping-the-fucking-air filthy.”
I start to point out what a mouthful that was, but realizing he’d probably retort by offering me a mouthful, I close my lips.
“Let me see your beautiful body.”
Glancing away from him at our surroundings, I see my reflection in the glass wall. Stunned at how flushed my body is, I shudder from head to toe. “I’m naked on a glass balcony in one of the most populated cities in the country.” I tighten my arms over my chest. “Excuse me for being shy about exposing my Brazilian and the exact shade of my nipples to the world.”
“I assure you that, at twelve stories up, your body is perfectly safe from unwanted eyes.”
“And yet you’re leering at me.”
“I said unwanted eyes,” he murmurs. Getting up, he shoves his chair away from us. He bends over me, placing one hand on each side of my chair. It takes every ounce of self-control not to react, not to reach out and touch him because my body is in flames, but I hold my head high in spite of my tense shoulders.
“Be honest with me, with yourself.” His dark eyes glitter dangerously, and I wonder what happens next. This is the most exposed I’ve been with any man in my life, and I’m both terrified and turned on. “You’ve thought about this.”
“Being naked in front of you?” I whisper. He nods. I have—so many times it’s pitiful—but in those fantasies, he’s always naked right along with me. “I wouldn’t be human if I hadn’t.”
“Do you think about everything I’ve said I want from you?” Kneeling to the floor directly in front of me, he touches my ankles, slowly scooting them apart, his fingers painting strokes of electricity on my skin. “My tongue and cock tasting and filling every hole in that tight body until you’re incapable of words?”
My breath catches. “Yes.”
He walks his fingers up my thighs, increasing the pressure behind his touch the closer he gets to my center. Breathless, I buck my hips. “I want you to answer me honestly. No fucking filter.” He tilts his head up, locking his brown irises with my blue eyes. When I bob my head indicating that I understand, he says, “Tell me what you want right now.”
What the hell does he expect me to say? Fuck me, Graham. Touch me, Graham. Stop looking at me and follow through with some of your promises, you stupid son-of-a-bitch. I shrug helplessly.
“I-I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?” he repeats. The corner of his mouth quivers, and I can’t tell whether he’s suppressing a laugh or a frown. “Slide down to the edge of the seat.”
I move down slowly. “Now that the matter of our arrangement has been settled—except for the two weeks you managed to win back—I want you to know what I expect from you,” he says.
“And what would that be?”
He leans in so close the tip of his nose brushes my clitoris. Anticipating the tremors that will wash through me the second his mouth makes contact with my flesh, I stop hugging myself, revealing my breasts, to grip the sides of my chair.
“Graham?” I moan.
He inhales. Senator Sexy-Ass breathes me in so deeply, and the sound of approval he makes is so loud, my knees buckle. Catching my breath, I hear him say, “When I call, you come.”
“Is that sexually?”
“Have we reached that point, Elle?” He stares up at me, the look in his dark eyes absolutely wicked. “Have we gotten to the point where I say your name and you fucking detonate?”
“No, I—”
“Eleanor,” he says roughly. “Elle.” He puts his lips together and blows a rush of air against my sex. I squirm, so he does it a couple more times. “Ms. Courtney.” Grinning and taking in the sight of me breathing heavily and fisting my hands around the armrests, he growls, “Well fuck, maybe we have reached that point.”
I hate his teasing tone just as much as I despise the weight of desire in the pit of my stomach and the way I want to grasp him by his dark hair and slam his mouth against my pussy. Just thinking that word sends a ripple down my spine. He must notice because he laughs and slants his body away from mine. I want to scream, tell him he’s moving in the wrong direction.
“What are you doing?” I calmly ask.
“Watching you come undone.” Taking my hand in his, he brings it to his lips, licking each fingertip. I bend forward, reaching for the zipper of his jeans, but he sucks harder and shakes his head. “No dick for you, Eleanor.”
Then, without dropping my gaze, he guides my wet fingers between my legs. Once he starts my hand in a slow, circular grind that has me seeing everything between here and the heavens, he stands.
“Fuck yourself, Elle.” My fingers freeze over my folds, but he nods at the juncture of my thighs, urging me to keep going. “Fuck yourself for me.”
“But what happened to you doing it for me? What happened to all those promises you made not even half an hour ago?”
“Close your pretty mouth and move those fingers faster,” he orders, and I do only because the pressure is almost too much to bear. “That’s a good girl. Two fingers, fast and hard.”
I feel like I’m losing control—like I’m losing myself—but I obey. “Why are you doing this?”
“Did you not just tell me you didn’t know what you wanted from me?” he asks. I part my lips to give him a response, but he shakes his head. “A nod will do, Ms. Courtney.”
At the slow bob of my head, he says, “Put your feet on the table, legs apart, and look at me.” Trembling, I meet his requests, watching him through hooded eyes while he rearranges the pieces on the chessboard.
Every few seconds, he looks over at me, smiling as if he knows what I’m thinking—knows that I’m wishing I’d told him to screw me—as I pump my fingers into my swollen flesh. “Do you know how hard it is not to come over there and shove those fingers aside?”
I moan at the thought of it. “Why haven’t you then?” As he slides the tan queen back to D1, I notice his fingers are clenched. Somewhere, under that satisfied smirk, I’m getting to Graham. He’s just as affected by me. Suddenly driven by that knowledge, I throw my head back and make a little noise. I feel his eyes on my naked body, on my sex, and he’s quiet for a long time before clearing his throat.
“Rub your clit, Elle,” he says, his voice suddenly detached. “I want to see you come.”
I trace my thumb slowly over the throbbing nub. “Already?”
“If you can ask me questions, you’re not doing a good job.” He sits back down across from me, his expression unreadable. “Come for me, Elle. Let me hear you. Let me see you.”
Let me feel you.
Even though he doesn’t say it, I know that’s what he’s thinking.
Feeling his dark eyes closely studying every stroke of my fingers as I get myself off on his balcony sends my body reeling. The climax hits me hard, leaving me trembling from head to toe and panting. Focusing on coming down, I uncurl my toes and let the last tremors shake through my body.
“Now what?” I ask in a husky voice. “What do we do next?”
His expression is oddly calm, but even through the haze of pleasure, it’s obvious how tight his muscles are beneath his white tee and jeans. He gestures to my pile of clothes on the balcony floor. “Now you get dressed and go home. I’ll call you.”
NINETEEN
GRAHAM
I should’ve fucked her.
I should’ve picked her up, tied her delicate wrists to my headboard, and pounded my cock into her body until the sun came up. I should have covered her mouth, her body, with cum and sweat, but I hadn’t. It was something she did that stopped me from claiming what she was offering me on a silver platter.
Elle had lost to me, but as she slid her fingers back and forth inside her pussy, her motions slow and deliberate to show me everything I was missing, the look in those blue eyes was one of triumph. My sweet, prim pawn
had quickly figured out just how potent the power between her creamy thighs really is.
And then she’d challenged me with it.
So instead of fucking her, I told her to leave. Decided to give her a taste of her own medicine by disappearing for four days and leaving her hanging. The problem with that brilliant idea is that I’m also punishing myself. Even though her dumbfounded expression and stuttering had given me some consolation, it does nothing for my cock now.
For the last forty-five minutes, I’ve debated whether to stand up my accountant and break my word to myself by going to Elle’s apartment and screwing her brains out against the wall or head into the shithole where she used to work for my last financial meeting of the year.
Reluctantly, I decide to ignore my balls, reminding myself that I’ll have plenty of time to use Elle’s body.
Two days, I think, getting out of my car and feeding the meter. I’ll make her—and myself—wait two more days and then I’ll see her.
Daniel hasn’t arrived at 202 yet, but I ask to be seated anyway. My waitress—one of the blondes I’d noticed interviewing with Elle the night I first saw her—takes me to a quiet spot near the back of the house, putting an extra bounce in her step so that her tits and ass bounce inside her tight tank top and shorts.
“Do you want to order, sugar?” she asks, clasping her hands behind her back and rocking from side to side.
“Yes, one waitress who doesn’t talk to me like she’s about to hand me the happy endings menu, please.” When her mouth drops open, I smirk. “The answer is no. I don’t want to order yet.”
She sulks away, leaving me to lament my current sexual frustration over Elle and her hypnotizing cunt while I pore over the limited menu. When I hear a shuffling sound on the other side of the table, I’m in the process of unlocking my phone to send Vero a message. I flare my nostrils. “For starters, Daniel, you’re late. For enders, I’m sick of talking about my money in a glorified strip club.”