Shaking His Iron Control and Being Carried Off

POV: Alistair

I have just been outplayed by an eighteen-year-old kid.

The realization hits me like a freight train the precise moment her soft lips crash against mine. I taste the faint trace of cherry lip gloss mixed with defiance and a raw, unpolished heat that instantly shorts out my logical brain. When I told Clara I was willing to engage in this twisted arrangement, I drew a hard, uncompromising line in the sand. I made my terms brutally clear. We were going to be a hidden secret. We would have sex behind closed doors where nobody sees, and nothing else. Zero public displays of affection. If she stepped out of line, I fully intended to remind her of her proper place.

I never expected her to blow those rules to pieces within seconds of me arriving. She kisses me on this dimly lit street with such sudden, unapologetic force that all the blood in my body rushes straight south. I am fucking hard. I have a throbbing, aching erection straining against the tight zipper of my tailored Armani trousers, and that presents a massive, glaring problem on multiple fronts.

First, her little gaggle of vicious friends is standing mere feet away on the sidewalk, watching us like a parliament of hungry hawks. Second, she is far too young for me. I am a thirty-seven-year-old man. I am the managing partner of a top-tier law firm and the ruthless CEO of Kincaid Enterprises. I cannot afford to risk a sprawling public scandal over a teenager. Third, and perhaps the most irritating fact of all, I pride myself on my ironclad self-control. I do not let messy emotions or wild impulses dictate my actions. I never get blindsided by anyone.

Yet here I am. My legendary restraint is shattering into a million jagged pieces against a rosy-cheeked girl pressing her slender body against mine.

I bring my large hands to her delicate shoulders and gently push her back, forcing a break in the physical contact before I lose my damn mind and drag her into the nearest alley. "Clara," I breathe out, my voice rougher and much deeper than I intended.

Her chest heaves with rapid breaths. She pants softly, taking in greedy gulps of the cool night air. Her wide eyes are startled and wild, proving the kiss affected her just as much as it affected me. But beneath that initial veil of shock, I spot an unmistakable mischievous sparkle. She is rather pleased with herself. I have always harbored a dangerous weakness for bad girls, and apparently, my little blonde assistant has a rebellious streak a mile wide.

"Sorry," she says, flashing a cheeky grin that proves she feels zero remorse for what she just did. "I got carried away."

I stare down at her, instantly recognizing the trap. She is a master of manipulation, playing a bold, calculated game of chess right here on the public sidewalk. She reminds me of my ex-wife in that specific regard. I let out a low snort. Instead of stepping back to create distance, I grab her upper arm. My grip is firm and unrelenting as I pull her flush against my chest, dipping my head so my mouth hovers mere inches from her ear.

"Are you done showing off to your little friends?" I whisper, letting the low rumble of my voice vibrate against her sensitive skin. "Or can we get the hell out of here so I can get what I came for?"

She tilts her head up to meet my gaze. She fixes me with those unnerving, innocent doe-eyes. "What did you come for?" she asks. Her tone drips with fake naivety. She knows damn well what I am here for tonight.

My cock hardens even further at the dual nature of her act. The innocent virgin routine is a jarring, intoxicating contrast to the vixen who just mashed her lips against mine for a captive audience. I seldom get caught off guard, but Clara is a spectacular actress. I want to shatter her little performance. I want to strip away the defiance, pin her down, and make her moan and beg for my cock until she forgets her own name.

"You," I growl right against her temple, keeping my fingers wrapped securely around her arm to hold her in place. "I came here for you. So get your sassy little ass inside the car so we can drive somewhere more private."

Most women would squeal at the prospect of sleeping with a billionaire. They would bend over backward to please me, hoping the encounter leads to a fat diamond ring and a joint bank account. I am used to women throwing themselves at my feet. But Clara is a different breed altogether.

She actually huffs and rolls her eyes at me. "How romantic."

I arch a dark brow, staring down at her audacious expression. "Clara, I am not your high school sweetheart. Do not expect me to be romantic."

Her eyes flash with pure rebellion. She refuses to back down or cower. She squares her shoulders, looks me dead in the eye, and delivers a line that nearly drops me to my knees right there on the pavement.

"I am an erotic author, Alistair. If you want me wet and needy for your cock inside your car, you will have to try harder than that."

An intense shock of pure, unadulterated desire pulses through my veins. Hearing those filthy, explicit words fall from her sweet lips does something incredibly dangerous to my self-control. My grip on her arm tightens instinctively.

"You certainly have a way with words," I murmur, the sharp edge in my voice revealing far more lust than I want to admit.

The corners of her mouth twitch upward into an impish little smirk. She thinks she won the round. She thinks she put the older, demanding CEO in his proper place. She thinks she has the upper hand.

Without a single word of warning, I drop my hands to her narrow waist and hook my arm behind her knees. I scoop her up into my arms like a bride.

Clara gasps loudly, her jaw hitting the floor in sheer shock. Her hands instinctively shoot out, grabbing onto my broad shoulders to steady herself as her feet dangle helplessly in the air.

I march around the sleek hood of my car, carrying her slight weight effortlessly against my chest. I look down at her stunned, open-mouthed expression and let a smug, arrogant tone lace my words. "How do you like this for romance?"

A deep, furious blush creeps up her neck and paints her cheeks a bright crimson. Her embarrassment betrays the truth she is trying so desperately to hide. She enjoys being swept off her feet and carried by a strong man. She tucks her burning face into the lapel of my suit jacket, leaning her warm cheek against my chest.

"Shut up," she mutters into the dark fabric.

I let out a low chuckle, unable to maintain my usual stone-faced demeanor. Her flustered state is incredibly cute. The realization hits me hard in the chest—I actually care about her reaction. When was the last time I cared about a woman's feelings? Since when do I find their embarrassment endearing? Usually, I find emotional displays utterly exhausting. With Clara, I find them endlessly fascinating.

I carry her across the remaining stretch of the street. I pull open the heavy passenger door and lower her down gently, letting her slide onto the expensive leather seat. I keep my hands braced on either side of her, caging her in for a brief, tense second.

She looks up at me, her big eyes blinking rapidly in the shadows of the car interior. "Promise me you are not taking me out into the woods to kill me."

A genuine laugh escapes my throat, echoing in the quiet night air. "Clara, do I look like a serial killer to you?"

She leans back into the plush headrest. She actually takes a moment to mull the absurd question over, dragging her gaze slowly from my polished dress shoes, up my tailored slacks, across the broad width of my chest, and finally to my face.

"Well," she starts, chewing nervously on her bottom lip. "You are very good-looking. Aren't serial killers supposed to be charming and attractive? You fit the bill perfectly."

My lips curl into a wide, triumphant grin. "Is that what you think of me? Charming and attractive?"

Her mouth parts in dismay. She realizes a second too late that she just openly admitted to finding me hot. The crimson flush returns with a vengeance, swallowing her features in a deep shade of red. She snaps her mouth shut and looks away, suddenly intensely interested in the glowing dashboard.

I revel in her honest, unfiltered reactions. Having this sassy eighteen-year-old around is going to be a hell of a lot more entertaining than I originally predicted.

I lean over her to grab the seatbelt. My broad chest brushes against her delicate shoulder, trapping her slight frame beneath my bulk. I pull the dark nylon strap across her body and click it into place. Instead of pulling away to give her space, I let my hand rest on the metal buckle right against her hip. I leave it there just long enough to feel a distinct, unmistakable shiver ripple through her tense body.

She holds her breath. Her fingers clench into tight fists on her lap. She is painfully hyper-aware of my physical proximity. My little author writes dirty stories about sex for a living, but her stiff body language screams inexperience. She isn't used to casual physical contact. The mere graze of my hand sends her nervous system over the edge.

I lean back slightly, giving her an inch of breathing room, but I keep my dark gaze locked firmly onto hers. The heavy, charged sexual tension crackles in the tight confines of the car.

"Relax, Clara," I say in a low, dangerous rumble. "If you are already this nervous before we even leave the curb, I cannot imagine how you will handle the rest of the night."

Her eyes widen to impossible proportions. She swallows hard, the motion visible in her slender throat. Her panicked gaze darts to my chest, my biceps, and back to my face. The reality of the situation is finally dawning on her. She is locked in a car with a man who knows exactly what he wants to do to her. Her sudden bout of shyness only serves to boost my soaring confidence.

I smirk, letting my dark promise hang heavily in the air between us.

"If you think we are only going to have a quickie in the car, you are dead wrong," I warn her softly, my voice leaving no room for doubt. "I plan on keeping you and your sassy little mouth all night."