Filthy Little Games

Ch. 7: The Eight Ball

QUINTON

She's a vile, wicked woman. Pure evil. Completely diabolical. I clench my teeth, controlling my desperate breathing as I attempt to disassociate from her wily fucking strokes. But I can't. It's all I can feel. Her touch. Her torment. Her goddamn games. My cock throbs between her slender fingers, begging, fucking pleading for a release that never comes.

"Emer—"

"Shh..." she hums, a sly, satisfied smirk on her stupidly gorgeous face. Her gaze remains affixed on the stage as she slows her movements, once again defusing the impending bomb. She could be a fucking explosives expert!

"I am going inside to fetch another champagne," Vivienne whispers in my direction. "Would you like another glass?" She looks over me. "Emery? Another...juice?"

"I'm fine," Emery says in a hushed tone, her smile so fucking innocent as if she doesn't have complete and utter control of my prick. "But maybe Quin would like one. I have a feeling he's rather parched right now." She tilts her head, eyes large and infuriating. "Hmm?"

"I'm fine," I grunt through the discomfort. "Thank you." I wait for several seconds for Vivienne to be out of sight before I shift my body toward Emery, and growl, "Enough, darling. You've proven your point."

She has the audacity to smile at me. "My point? And what is my point?" Her grip tightens around me, her tone lower than before. "Tell me, doctor. What point was I trying to prove?"

"Emery..."

She blinks. "Yes? Go on." I remain tightlipped, cursing her beauty, her brain, and her brawn. She sighs, clicking her tongue. "Do you need help, doctor? Is the question too difficult to process in your current—" She glances down at the slight bulge beneath the plush blanket. "State?"

"It's been nearly an hour of this," I grumble, unwilling to drop the white flag just yet. This was supposed to be her torture. Not mine.

"And why is this happening, huh?" She cocks her head, glancing over my shoulder into the main house. "Is it because you did something wrong? Is it because, maybe, you brought that woman here to... I don't know—" She feigns deep thought. "To make me jealous?"

I smirk at her. Perhaps I haven't lost after all. "And it worked." I flash her a grin. "Clearly."

Her eyes narrow. "I don't get jealous."

I blink, gaze flitting to her python-like grip. "I beg to differ, darling. You're one more stoke away from giving me severe carpet burn." Her tiny glower forces me to laugh. "How's your wrist, Emery? Sore yet?"

Her mouth gapes open, irritated. "I—" With one swift motion she yanks her hand away in a huff. "Bastard."

Despite the lingering discomfort under my slacks, I release a soft chuckle. "I find you rather charming when you're angry, darling." Reaching over, I graze my knuckles across her frosty cheek. "Either the cold is causing you to blush or you're fuming inside."

She smack my hand away. "Don't."

I let out a hushed laugh. "I should be the one who's angry right now, darling. But, since I'm a gentleman, I will extend you a very humble and sincere apology." She rolls her eyes. "Emery..." She sighs, slowly turning her head toward me, and I grin. "I am so very sorry for putting you in such an uncomfortable situation, and I promise never to do it again. Will you ever forgive me?"

She glares at me. "You need to work on your apology tone. It almost sounds patronizing."

I grab my chest, feigning offense. "I resent that whole-heartedly."