Off Limit: Claimed by My Ex-Fiancé's Stepdad novel · Chapter 10 of 32

Chapter 10: His Bed

The pacing stopped.

The door opened.

Ward stood there in a white undershirt and gray sweatpants, his reading glasses on, a script in his hand with a pencil stuck in it.

He'd been reading the show. At midnight. After the night we'd had.

He looked at me. At the T-shirt. At my bare legs.

He took his glasses off very slowly.

"That's your father's shirt," he said.

"You recognize it?"

"He wore it on the rail every Saturday for ten years. I signed the order for those shirts."

"So you know what it means that I'm wearing it."

"Tell me anyway."

I took a breath.

"I thought about it," I said. "I want you. Tonight. Yes."

He didn't move.

"You can go back upstairs," he said. "Right now, or in an hour, or halfway through. You can change your mind at any point and I'll walk you up those stairs myself."

"I know."

"I need you to know it."

"Ward," I said. "I've known it since the buttons."

He set the script down on the dresser by the door without looking.

Then he stepped back and let me in.

I stepped inside and he closed the door behind me without looking away from my face.

The lamp was on.

The rain was still on the window.

I put both hands on his chest and pushed.

He went back two steps, three, until the backs of his knees hit the bed and he sat down hard enough that the frame creaked.

I stood between his knees and looked down at him.

Nobody in his building had ever seen Ward Stanton sitting down while they stood over him.

"Glasses," I said.

He took them off.

I took them out of his hand and folded them and set them on the nightstand.

Then I knelt on the bed, one knee on either side of his thighs, and settled onto his lap.

His hands came up and stopped an inch from my hips.

Waiting.

"Cleo."

"I want your mouth first," I said. "And then I want you to fuck me slow until I tell you to stop. And I won't tell you to stop."

His jaw tightened.

His hands landed on my hips and gripped.

"You've thought about this."

"I've thought about it every night since the buttons. Maybe before."

"You're going to kill me."

"Good."

I pulled his undershirt off over his head and threw it at the floor.

Then I leaned in and kissed him.

It wasn't like the alley.

That had been for the cameras and the city and the two hundred people who'd watched me walk out of my own wedding.

This was just for us.

I bit his lower lip and he made a sound low in his chest and his hands slid up under my father's shirt.

Big hands.

Warm.

They spanned my ribs and his thumbs brushed the undersides of my breasts.

"Off," he said against my mouth. "Now."

I lifted my arms.

He pulled the shirt off over my head and it landed somewhere near the reading lamp on the floor, and then his mouth was on my collarbone and his hands were full of my breasts and I forgot how to breathe.

"God," I said.

He pulled back and looked at me.

Bare to the waist in his lap.

My hair still damp on my shoulders.

"I've imagined you a hundred ways," he said. "Not one of them comes close."

"Show me."

He flipped us.

One second I was on top, and then my back hit the mattress and he was over me, braced on one forearm, his hips between my thighs.

The weight of him.

The heat through his sweatpants.

I dragged my nails down his back and he shuddered.

"I want to take my time," he said. "I want to have you falling apart before I'm even inside you."

"Then do it."

He kissed the corner of my mouth.

My chin.

The hollow under my ear.

"This is mine now," he said, and his mouth closed over my nipple.

I cried out.

His tongue, his teeth, the scrape of his beard on my skin.

He worked one breast and then the other until I was arching under him, my hips rocking against his cock through the thin gray cotton.

"Please."

He laughed against my ribs.

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