Mirrors (Reflections Book 1)

by A. L. Woods

  I tracked after her, my body looming close to hers. Her ass the hit edge of my desk with a soft thud, her fingers curling around the lip of the cherry wood as she sat on the desk, her breaths heavy. The alluring rise and fall of her chest mesmerized me into an exhilarating trance.

  “I never lie,” she whispered.

  “I think you lie all the time.” Standing opposite her now, my hands came down around either side of her hips, my palms pressing into the top of the desk, bending at the waist so I could glare into her frightened eyes. “I think you lie because reality scares you too much. You like the way the lie feels, and you accept that as your truth instead.”

  “I never lie,” she repeated, her pitch higher this time, that little chin of hers jutting out, her defiance a massive unintentional turn-on that I was about to school.

  “You know what the sad thing is, Hemingway?” I murmured, watching as my hand took on a mind of its own, reaching up to touch her face, the pads of my fingers hungry for contact. The soft skin of her jawline sent a current through my body that left me reeling, but it was the drop of her eyelids that made me realize this conversation was all but over.

  “What’s that?” she finally managed to say, her eyes remaining lidded, lips parting.

  My mouth hovered over hers, my words fanning her face. “You don’t believe your lies, either.”

  She leaned forward and found my mouth. Her kiss was urgent, a sound of release leaving her on a hiss that made my heart kick in my chest. Raquel’s legs parted—I didn’t know if it was involuntary or subconsciously—and her fists bunched the hemline of my gray fitted Henley, drawing me closer to her until her hot core was grinding against my cock, which was delighted to be invited to this impromptu tea party. Her body was like a magnet, pulling me forward whether I wanted it to or not. Her kiss scorched my mouth like fucking whiskey, a slow burn that ached all the way down, inciting an inextinguishable blaze in my body.

  There was no threat of someone else coming into the house, no one to take her away from me. Right now, she was entirely mine.

  Her hands felt cold when they slid under my shirt, her fingertips a languorous assault that warmed themselves as they worked over the planes of my abs. A moan of approval freed itself from the back of her throat that had my cock straining against my jeans, demanding to be released from the restraints. When her hands started a slow descent, I intercepted, grabbing her wrists with both hands, pinning them to either side of her, using the opportunity to deepen the kiss. My tongue teased her bottom lip, demanding access that she readily gave me. Her tongue circled mine in a slow dance that made my head spin, every nerve in my body tingling with anticipation. I let go of my hold on her wrists, cupping her cheeks with my palms, dipping her head back, my greedy mouth working against hers. Her tongue met each stroke of mine.

  Her freed hands found my belt loops and pulled me against her. The responsive freneticism of her hips as her core worked against mine nearly sent me over the edge, the loss of control imminent. I released my hold on her cheeks, dropping my hands to her waist to drag her closer against me. I had a decision to make here, one that I had had to consider a week ago. A decision that carried consequences, for if not handled delicately it could have lasting ramifications with a ripple effect felt for years to come. Raquel wasn’t just the girl you hit it and quit it with, in spite of the skewed lens through which she viewed herself. She was the one you fought for, the one you spent most of your life searching for.

  I wanted to do differently by her, but first she had to learn. Fortunately for her, I was a great teacher.

  “Can I touch you?” I cautiously asked, voice heavy with gravel.

  Her eyes widened, like she had never been asked that question before. Her nod was brief if enthusiastic, and of course her kiss had already told me everything I needed to know.

  She was all in.

  I picked her up by the waist with ease, she was an easy hundred and fifteen pounds soaking wet. I had lifted bags of cement heavier than her. Her long legs raised to circle my waist, arms wrapping around my neck as her fingers found my hair. Throughout it all, her mouth never left mine. There was a desperation in the way she kissed me, as if she was trying to smother whatever pain was stoking the fire that raged inside of her. I walked us over to the chair behind the desk and dropped my ass into it, our combined weight sending the chair back into the nearly emptied bookshelf with a rattle. Before she could settle in my lap, I guided her back to her feet, keeping her steady by her hips.

  She surveyed me through lids that were half open, my thumb and pointer finger popping the button of her jeans open. My heartbeat pounded as loud as a snare drum in my ears as I pulled down the zipper, exposing lace-trimmed her black panties contrasting against her alabaster skin. She stabilized herself by resting her hand on my shoulder as I leaned forward, blowing out a breath to mask the pain of my aching balls while I shimmied the dark denim of her jeans over her toned thighs, bunching them at her knees.

  Weeks. I had wanted this for fucking weeks.

  Leaning back in the chair, I rubbed my fingers across my mouth, taking her in. The slight jut of her diminutive hips and the thin strip of lace from her thong that kept her concealed from me had me yearning in a way I never had before. I had wanted this from the first moment I saw her, and now I had her. I guided her to me, turning her so her ass settled across my hard-on. She settled her nose under the scruff of my jawline, tilting her head back to lean against my hard pecs. The faint heady scent of her arousal labored my breathing, my hand sliding down her long torso. Her hips rose to greet my hand that cupped the damp heat of her core.

  Every pull of oxygen she took seemed to come to her urgently, as if her lungs couldn’t keep up. I nuzzled her with my nose, my eyes taking in the beauty etched with need in her face. Her teeth sank into her plump lower lip as my finger teased the edge of her underwear, wanting to savor every moment.

  She released her bite on her lower lip when my mouth crashed against hers. Her arm reached up to curl around the back of my neck, pulling me closer.

  “Hemingway,” I murmured breathlessly, my middle finger coaxing that hot seam of hers that I desperately wanted to bury myself in, “admit that you’re a liar.”

  “If I do,” her voice sounded strained, “will you touch me properly?”

  Fuck. Her request almost made me lose my resolve and abandon my game plan entirely. No. I had to see this through. I had been raised with the belief that some lessons couldn’t be taught, they had to be experienced.

  And this was an experience Raquel would feel for days to come.

  “Admit that you’re a liar and we’ll see,” I coaxed, teasing her through her panties.

  “I’m a liar.” The mewl she let out sent the hair on my arms upright.

  “Good girl.” I kissed her jawline, her head leaning to rest on my chest, revealing a better view of what was going on between her legs. My big palm was over her heat, her jeans bunched at her knees. Her hips bucked against my hand, but I stilled her.

  I swallowed the tight lodge in my throat, my next request forming in my head, her heart beating so hard that I could feel it reverberating through her ribcage against my chest.

  “Now tell me you like me.”

  Her heartbeat quickened, whether from anticipatory anxiety, her arousal, or the threat of the impending truth materializing inside of her, I didn’t know, but I could practically feel the ache coming from her core.

  “No,” she hissed, eyes shrewd and daring. She seemed to have figured out my game and was denying me the simple pleasure I would have derived from the admission. Whether she liked it or not, I would coax the truth out of her.

  A cocky smirk teased the edges of my mouth. With a laggard touch, I pushed her thong aside, a trimmed smattering of pubic hair greeting me as I dragged my index finger against the slippery slit, her guise of resilience slipping at the skin-on-skin contact. Her body shuddered, but her profile masked her thoughts, her eyes trained on me. This girl was good,
but I was better. Her arousal coated the finger that I slipped into her tight entrance, and she was all but putty in my hands. The sound that came out of her nearly made me lose my load inside my own pants, like a teenage boy touching a girl for the first time.

  My thumb found her clit, working her with just the right amount of pressure. I released my hold on her hips, watching as she fucked herself against my hand to the hilt, nearly making me forget what I was trying to do in the first place until my mind jerked me back into reality.

  “Tell me the truth, or I’ll stop.”

  “No,” she pleaded breathlessly, but it was impossible to discern what part of my statement she was objecting to. Deciding there was only one way to figure that out, I pulled my hand away. Raquel immediately jerked in my lap, I all but shoved her off me. With a yelp of surprise, she stumbled toward the desk, giving me full view of that plump, supple ass, making me want to bend her over the desk right now and undo my pants.

  No. I had a mission here, and a point to drive home, and whether that ended with her spread open for me or with me kicking her out, we were going to settle this here and now, once and for all. I got up and bent her over the desk, her ass in the air.

  “Are you going to fuck me now, Slim?” she challenged. Her palms spread out on the desk, bracing herself for what she probably thought was going to be the fucking of her lifetime.

  I wanted to oblige, desperately. I wanted to fuck Hemingway more than I wanted to see the Pats win the Super Bowl every year. I had imagined the beauty of her cunt for weeks on end, and now it was here for my taking, dripping with her need for me.

  But I wasn’t going to fuck her.

  What I was going to do to her would be worse.

  Much worse.

  And whether Raquel wanted to acknowledge it or not, she wouldn’t just admit she liked me.

  She would beg for me.

  It would be painful for her, but not as much as it would pain me.

  I sat up from the chair, my lips rolling together as I dragged her jeans off of her legs. I stood to my full height, my body draping over hers like a heavy blanket, my hands pushing her shirt and bra up until I felt the small swells of her breasts.

  “Oh, I’m not going to fuck you, Hemingway,” I ground out against her ear, palming her left breast with one hand. I bunched her thin panties around my fist, and with a quick wrench of my wrist, the material tore, the sound tangling with the tortured moan from the back of her throat. I dropped the panties in her line of vision on the desk, and if she had looked high before, the expression on her face now was nearly an out-of-body experience.

  I backed my body away just enough to give myself room so I could slide my hand down the small of her back, my fingers feather light against the flesh of her ass, another impatient cry escaping her lips.

  Her profile appeared strained from my torment. “Please,” she panted, pressing her chest into my palm, her hips rocking against the desktop.

  “I like you, okay?” Her voice was breathless. “I like you a lot.”

  My chest almost exploded with pride, but it didn’t change anything.

  She was going to learn the hard way.

  I teased her pussy with the side of my hand, and she all but screamed from the anguish of the buildup.

  “Say it again.”

  Venom sprang to life in her darkening eyes. “Fuck you,” she bit out, wrestling underneath me, backing her ass into my hard-on. Raquel ground herself against me in an effort to take control of the situation, as if I would be feeble-minded enough to abdicate my plan to dominate her over something as innocuous as that ass of hers grinding against me.

  “Not this time, Hemingway.” My laugh salacious, I sent her back into the desk with a forward thrust of my hips “But someday.” I slid two fingers into her, spinning them inside of her until I set off into a steady rhythm of pumps, loving the feel of her and wishing like hell that I didn’t have a point to prove.

  “I like you, I like you…oh God, I fucking like you,” she cried out, her body meeting each thrust of my furious fingers.

  “That’s my girl.” Whether she liked it or not, she was mine.

  I sank to my knees, my fingers sliding out of her. I brought my mouth to her dripping heat.

  “Wait, what—” her shock died in her mouth when my tongue met her clit. She was sweeter than I expected for someone so damn bitter. I expected a tang of salt to her arousal, but what I got was a sugary syrup that challenged my willpower. I flattened my tongue against her, flicking at her clit until moans raked out of her mouth as I pushed her toward the edge.

  “Tell me you’re sorry for being such an asshole,” I demanded against her pulsating pussy, my taut tongue taunting her entrance.

  “I’m sorry,” she sputtered. She was so high on the thrill, chasing her impending orgasm, that I believed she was willing to do or say just about anything.

  My tongue worked back and forth, flicking at the nub until I felt her thighs trembling. Her juices dribbled over my mouth, running down to my chin.

  Raquel thought she was going to come, but she was wrong.

  She had shown up here looking for Penelope, to make amends for her wrong. But what she was about to get was a whole lot worse.

  I’d leave her dangling on that painful precipice, the brink of an orgasm that wasn’t going to come–not by my hands, anyway.

  Maybe next time she would think twice about leaving with someone else, maybe she would finally be able to give up the story she’d built up in her head and accepted as her truth. Maybe she would finally abandon the comfort of her own lies.

  Reaching for her jeans, I climbed to my feet, my ears registering the indignant sound of frustration she made.

  “What the fuck, Sean?” Raquel hissed, her pitch sharp. She pushed herself up just as I tossed her jeans on the desk. A wounded look settled onto her ruddy face, sweat matting her hair to her forehead as her eyes bounced between her pants and me, as if she was piecing together my ploy all along.

  Her dry laugh filled the office. “You son of a bitch.”

  “Hurts, doesn’t it?” I asked, stroking my chin, unable to suppress my smarmy smile. “To watch what you want escape you.”

  Fight for yourself, Raquel. Fight for me. Fight for what I know could be an us.

  Her nostrils flared as she placed the last puzzle piece into its rightful home: My calculation, my careful machination to make her vulnerable, to build her up, only to tear her back down. I didn’t want this version of Raquel, her bullshit, her misplaced anger. I hated her resistance to her own vulnerability, the innate weakness she fought to conceal. I wanted her truths, not her lies. I wanted her to look within that mirror of herself and acknowledge all the parts that made her Raquel.

  The cracks that marred her surface didn’t make her any less beautiful to me.

  But in order to rebuild her, I would first need to destroy her, to slay the demons that rendered her still. Even if it took every tool in my tool belt to accomplish.

  I suspected the ache of the female equivalent of blue balls was settling in. Did she have a pained tight churning settling into her flesh? Was she experiencing the ache of a blood rush in her clit that made her want to climb out of her prickling skin?

  She ripped her jeans from the desk, thrusting one leg through a pant leg, followed by the other, and pulled them over her hips, fixing her gaze on me as she zipped her fly and snapped the button closed. “Oh, it hurts,” she snarled, bounding toward the foyer like she couldn’t get away from me fast enough, her body practically vibrating with anger while she shoved her feet back into her shoes. “But guess what? I know guys who, unlike you, finish what they start.”

  A veil of red dropped over my eyes that nearly sent me after her when the front door whipped open and closed with a bang.

  Hemingway always did need to get the last word in, didn’t she? The trouble for her was, she wasn’t the only writer on this book anymore. I was writing in it, too. And in our story…

  She would
fall in love with me.

  Even if she needed to hate me first.

  CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

  That fucking prick.

  I all but floored it out of the driveway, tires screeching as I peeled onto the quiet suburban street, my blood pressure kicking my adrenaline into overdrive.

  He had toyed with me, made a fool out of me. And what was worse? I had let him. I should have left as soon as I realized Penelope wasn’t there, but I had been so…desperate when I saw him that I put myself into that situation. Sean got under my skin in the best and worst ways possible. He pissed me off, but in the same breath could make me feel like I was buoyant.

  My breaths came fast and furious as I sped for the freeway, nearly blasting through every stop sign. I was grateful that Eaton wasn’t laden with cops who had a point to prove, because I was not in the damn mood. Frankly, I was likely to proposition sex just as much to get that fucking asshole out of my system as to get myself out of a stupid speeding ticket.

  The resounding thought percolating in my mind as I clocked 80 mph on the freeway was that I didn’t like him, I hated him. I hated his arrogance, his rugged charm, hated the way my heart beat a little faster whenever he was around, how each touch from him felt like an overflowing stream of pleasure that I never wanted to stop.

  Fuck him. He could rot. I hoped his damn dick fell off. I hoped every single one of his dexterous fingers spontaneously snapped off. I hoped he never smiled again. And most of all, I hoped like hell he would call me and finish what he fucking started.

  My foot found the brake just as an Audi changed lanes in front of me, a flurry of curses leaving my mouth that would have given a priest a nervous breakdown.

  I was on edge, my temper reaching a level I hadn’t experienced in years, but it was the constant throbbing in my bare pussy that had tears springing to my eyes. No matter how much I rocked myself against the driver’s seat, nothing would soothe that burn. All I could think about was that this was fucking Penelope’s fault. I would have never gone to that house to make amends if she had just returned one damn phone call, humored me with a one-word text message, or at a minimum, indulged me with one of those stupid chain emails she loved so much.