Work For It (Naiad Novels Book 1)

Despite the way Daniel’s touch consumes me, I manage to get the door open. His hand falls away as I step into the dark hotel room, and it’s embarrassing how much I immediately miss it.

I don’t turn on the lights as we shed our coats and hang them on the hooks by the door; there’s enough illumination coming in through the windows to make him out perfectly. But that’s when the doubt creeps in again.

Should we really be doing this?

We’ve already established that this is consensual, that it’s a mutual attraction, even if there are lingering negative feelings. And as long as it doesn’t lead to trouble at work, then why the fuck can’t we do this?

Still, my own reassurances do little to calm my whirring mind.

Daniel must sense my hesitance, because he backs me against the wall and settles his hands on my waist. “I can feel you thinking,” he says, dipping his head to look me in the eye. “If you tell me to leave right now, I will.”

I swallow hard before answering. “No.” For emphasis, I turn the privacy lock on the door. “I want you to stay.”

I swear his eyes darken as he leans in closer, finding my earlobe with his teeth and tugging.

“Tell me more about how I fucked you over,” he murmurs.

This is familiar territory, and it gets me out of my head as heat shoots through me. I lift my hands to his chest and undo the first button of his shirt. “I could have been making thousands more a year in royalties if you hadn’t pushed me into that deal,” I tell him, though my fury is more subdued that usual.

“You didn’t have to accept it.”

“You didn’t have to make it seem like you were doing me a favor by offering me scraps,” I shoot back, working on the next button even though all I want to do is rip his shirt open and send them all flying.

With the fingers I fantasized about in the hallway, Daniel toys with the ties that hold my dress together at the waist. One hard tug, and it’ll come undone, but his movements are agonizingly slow.

“My job is to look out for the company,” he says. “Not you.”

“Your job is bullshit.”

He gives a sharp pull on the string in response, and my dress parts down the center, exposing me to him. My reflex is to cover myself, but I stand firm and stare up at him.

“Naiad could have easily afforded to pay me more,” I go on as his gaze falls to my breasts. I’m wearing a flimsy bralette with twisting black serpents embroidered across it, the design barely covering my nipples. “You knew how much I was really worth and you cheated me.”

“And you let it happen.”

I’m on fire again, and not just because his hands have found my skin, his touch ghosting over my ribs. I’m genuinely furious. How dare he blame me for his actions? “You’re a fucking asshole.”

He laughs, short and mocking. With half a step back, he knocks my hands away from his chest. “You’re no better. The world doesn’t revolve around you, mi amor, as much as you like to think it does.”

The sarcastic way he speaks the endearment and his simmering anger turn me on even more. His ability to match my energy brings out something feral in me. I want him badly, but when I reach for him, I’m denied again.

The offense hits hard, though it’s quickly nullified when he shoves the dress from my shoulders. The fabric pools on the floor around my heels, and then his body is pressed to mine. This time, somehow, his cock is even more prominent.

“I’m not sorry for anything I’ve done,” he says sharply, his fingertips sinking into my hips. “And that’s not what you want, is it? Contrition? No, you want me to hate you as much as you hate me.”

My heart races. This sudden show after hours—no, years—of perfect composure is like a shock to the system. But fuck, I like it. More than I should.

And he’s right. I don’t want his apologies. Words don’t change shit; actions do. He’s figured me out, but I can’t let him know that. “I don’t—”

“Cállate, Selene. Let me hate you.”

After ages of teasing, of shared breath, of near contact, his mouth finally finds mine, the kiss hard and demanding. I almost combust on the spot. His tongue sweeps across my bottom lip, and I open without hesitation, giving myself over to him. He wastes no time showing me that my dreams can come true—and that the real deal is better.

My knees go weak, and desire pools low in my belly as his hands run down my back, over my ass, and to the front of my sheer thong. When his finger traces the embroidered snake and ends right where I want him to be, I can’t hold back a moan. But he doesn’t linger. No, his touch disappears a moment later, leaving me yearning for more. His tongue is enough to distract me from my disappointment, brushing mine once, twice, before he pulls back again, forcing me to lean in, to follow his warmth like a moth to a flame.

I slide my hands up his shoulders and tangle my fingers in his hair as he kisses from the corner of my mouth to my jaw, nipping at the sensitive skin there. Each time, the quick pain is soothed when he flicks his tongue over it. A strike and apology. No, not an apology—neither of us wants that.

His hands find their way up my back and stop at the hook of my bralette. With ease, he pops the clasp and drags the fabric down my shoulders and past my elbows. Then it’s fluttering to the floor.

“To think you’ve been hiding these under ugly sweaters,” he murmurs as he takes me in, his lids low and heavy. “A travesty.”

Before I can swat at him for insulting my fashion choices, his mouth is on my left nipple. I let out a hiss when he scrapes his teeth across it, but again, he soothes it with a light flick of his tongue. He alternates between breasts, leaving me to press my head against the wall and steady myself as he repeats it. Then he starts to move lower.

A flash of panic courses through me when he drops to his knees and curls his fingers around my thong. I’m practically naked already, but once that tiny piece of fabric is gone, there’s no turning back. He’ll always have the knowledge of what I’m like underneath it all.

I could stop this right now. I could tell him that this is a bad idea, that he should go home, that we should never speak about this again and return to the status quo of hate. It would be the easy thing to do. The smart thing. But I don’t want to stop—I want him to touch me, to make me cry out his name over and over again. Second guessing will only leave me cold and alone, when all I want is for him to burn me from the inside out.

Daniel doesn’t look up, but I know he can feel me warring with myself. His hands move to the small of my back and he trails kisses from my sternum to my belly to the top of the sheer panties. It’s only then that he glances up, silently asking for permission.

I take a breath and nod. He can have this. He can have me for tonight.

A moment later, he’s dragging the material down my legs, leaving me bare to him. He helps me step out of the thong, gripping my hip with one hand while he guides one foot and then the other out of the fabric. Once I’m covered in nothing more than the dim lights of the city, he sits back and stares at me in a way that feels like worship.

The look sends shivers up and down my spine.

When he’s done admiring, he palms the backs of my thighs, coaxing my legs apart. I comply and open for him, even though my knees threaten to buckle from the rush of want that hits me. But he holds me firm and leans forward to brush the tip of his nose up the inside of my thigh to my hipbone, where he places a reverent kiss. From there, he makes his way over and down without taking his lips from me. The touch is so soft I nearly melt, but judging from before, he knows how to be rough.

“This doesn’t feel like you hate me,” I pant as his breath skims over where I want him most.

He turns to kiss my inner thigh again, and his stubble brushes my sensitive skin. “Give it time.”

Then, contradicting his statement, his mouth is on my core. I throw my hands out, bracing myself on the wall as pleasure courses through me. When he flicks at my clit, already aching from the teasing buildup, a moan escapes me. With the way he’s moving, he could send me over the edge in a matter of seconds. But at my response, he peers up and slows his pace, determined to drag this out.

He changes direction and technique before I can fully adjust to any one thing, pulling me up and dragging me back down. It’s torture, this up and down and back and forth, and it feels so damn good.

Eventually, I run a trembling hand through his hair. It’s black and thick and soft, and it takes everything not to sink my fingers down to his scalp and yank. As if he knows what I’m thinking, his eyes snap up and find mine, a threat in them. It sends another jolt through me, as if I wasn’t already practically levitating.

I gasp when he hooks my left leg over his shoulder, opening me up to him even more. And when he slides a finger into me, his mouth never leaving my clit, I swear I’ll lose my fucking mind. He laves at me and crooks that finger, forcing my pussy to tighten around him. God, how is he so good at this? How does he know how to break me and build me up at the same time? How can this man, who barely knows me at all, know so intuitively what I want?

I bite my lip to hold back my moans, but I can’t help it; one breaks past my quiet whimpers when I’m nearly to my peak. I want to tell him I’m going to come, but I’m rendered speechless. Instead, I tighten my grip in his hair, readying myself to crest over the wave.

And Daniel must sense it, because that’s when he pulls away.

“Oh, you bastard,” I gasp as he leans back and grins sharply up at me, my wetness glistening on his full lower lip. “I was wrong. You do hate me.”

“Let me show you how much.”

The next thing I know, he’s scooping me up bridal style like I weigh practically nothing. I’m not the smallest girl, and I’m definitely on the taller side, so his ability to move me so effortlessly is yet another turn on. The man is getting more and more perfect by the second.

He places me gently on the crisp white duvet, then, with his knees between mine, pressing me open, he crawls over me. I’m vulnerable to him. The cool air hitting my soaked folds makes me crave the heat of him again, in any form he’s willing to give me. But right now, there’s an imbalance.

“You’re wearing too many clothes,” I tell him. He’s still fully dressed. The only thing out of place are the few buttons of his shirt I managed to undo. “Take them off.”

He tsks and shakes his head. “So pushy. Haven’t you realized I’m the one in control here?”

Another shiver rolls down my spine. “Who said you were?”

He leans down again, kissing me hard. My taste lingers on his tongue. “You did,” he murmurs against my lips a moment later. “And I’m not giving it back.”

“Fine, keep it,” I exhale, bringing my knees up a little higher. He’s between my legs, but he’s careful not to let our bodies touch in all the places I’m desperate for, purposefully denying me. “But let me feel you.”

“Say the magic word and I will. I want to hear you beg.”

Jesus, this man. This fucking man. So intent on pressing all my buttons except the one I want him to put his mouth back on. But I’ll give him this if it means getting what I want. “Please, Daniel.”

He kisses me again in reply, this time gently, sweetly, slowly. It lingers and makes me want him even more, especially when he nips at my lower lip. Any harder, and it would have drawn blood. “Good girl.”

It’s so condescending and yet so hot that I feel like I’m burning from the inside out. “Take off your fucking clothes.”

He laughs, but then he draws himself up to his knees and unbuttons his shirt. “Always trying to save face,” he comments as his fingers work each button through its hole. “It’s going to get you into trouble one day.”

I’m hoping that it gets me into trouble right now. The kind that ends with the guests on this floor complaining about how loud the people in room 1811 are. It seems, though, that Daniel is determined to take his sweet goddamn time.

I want to tell him to hurry up, but knowing him, making any other demands will only prolong the process. Finally, he shrugs out of his shirt, leaving his broad shoulders and chest on display. A faint line of hair trails down his defined abdomen and disappears past the waistband of his pants, teasing me, begging me to trace it and see where it leads.

For now, though, I drag my attention back to his right shoulder, where a pattern of ink decorates his pec, then wraps around his bicep. The tattoo makes him—annoyingly—even sexier.

“I didn’t know you had a tattoo,” I blurt.

Daniel raises a brow, though his gaze is still hooded. “Why would you?”

The words are a reminder of what I’ve been thinking all night. “True,” I concede. “I don’t know you.”

“You’ll get to.”

Before I can question what he means, he’s undoing the button of his slacks and sliding the zipper down. And then I’m at a loss for words.