"Yeah, I need it," she says and pushes the empty glass into my hands.
I stand and head across the room to mix her another drink. Already, she's grinning, and her cheeks are blushing. "You don't drink much, do you?" She seems tipsy.
"Kind of hard to get out. Being a full-time single parent puts a dent in my nightlife."
"What about your dating life?" I glance at her over my shoulder as I mix her second cocktail. I top off my scotch and hand her glass to her before resuming my position at the edge of the desk.
"Hasn't been anyone other than—" Hannah doesn't finish her sentence, and she shifts around in her seat, trying to get comfortable. Maybe it's the thought of him that's making her restless.
"You need a nickname for that asshole," I say.
"Other than asshat?" Hannah smirks. "What about orgasm killer?" She pins me with her stare, and I try not to choke on her remark.
"Orgasm killer?" I bring my scotch to my lips and take a swig. I need a stiff drink listening to her use the word orgasm and not getting aroused. She's gorgeous in her dark plaid pajama pants that are too big. Her cheeks are rosy, and I imagine that blush spreads down her neck across her breasts.
"That's all he was good for, killing any shot of me getting off. Do you know he could be called the two-minute man?"
My eyes widen, and I swallow the rest of the scotch as she rambles on about how awful Mark was in bed.
"Two minutes, that would actually be a record for him. There was no foreplay. Just wham, bam, and make sure you get it in the right hole! And don't get me started on him trying to talk dirty. Dirty talk should just be outlawed!"
"That's a bit harsh," I say.
She raises an eyebrow. I think I may have started a war with my Zaya. "Guys can't talk dirty. They think they can, but it comes out lame and not the least bit sexy."
I should leave it alone. Hannah's not thinking straight, but I disagree with her, and I'm not a man to sit idly by and accept what she's saying as the truth.
"Maybe two-minute man shouldn't be allowed to talk dirty, but I'm confident my filthy mouth would make you wet, and you'd be begging me to satisfy you." I pin her with my stare.
Hannah's lips part, and she gasps at my remark. Her cheeks burn, and she presses the glass to her lips, finishing her liquor. She hands me the empty glass. "Another?"
"I think you've had your limit," I say.
I can't imagine she'll be thrilled tomorrow when she remembers divulging all about how bad Mark was in bed.
She scrunches her nose in the most adorable way possible, and her bottom lip juts out as she pouts. "Pretty please? Or else I have to go to bed."
A dozen other ideas come to mind, and none of them involve sleep. "I'm not letting you get drunk."
Hannah giggles. "It's too late for that."
That's all I gave her, and maybe they were a bit heavy on the scotch. I didn't precisely measure the liquor, but shit – she's toasted.
Hannah stands, ignoring my words, and saunters across my office toward the liquor.
"What do you think you're doing?" I raise a curious eyebrow. I've never known a woman to help herself to my alcohol or, really, anything in my home. Although, if I'm to be honest, Hannah is the first woman I've brought to the compound. Usually, my intimate activities are handled elsewhere.
"Getting myself a drink, silly!"
I'm glad she's feeling better, carefree, and happy. But I hate that the cause of that is the cocktails. I'd rather be the one helping her move on and get over that loser.
I push myself off the desk, placing my half-consumed glass of scotch on the wooden table as I close the distance between us. "No way."
"I'm tired of men telling me what I can and can't do. I'm an adult." Hannah stomps her bare foot as if she were trying to prove a point.
"Having a temper tantrum isn't a very grown-up thing to do," I whisper, coming up from behind. My hands are on either side of her, but I'm not touching her.
I want to touch her. I want to back her up against the desk, push down her pants and drop to my knees. I'd show her what it's like to have a riveting orgasm with her legs wrapped around my neck.
Has she forgotten what it was like when we were together? It was only one night, but I've never forgotten Hannah.
How could I?
I've slept with my fair share of women, but none of them came close. She's pure, innocent, and has no idea what I do for a living. That kind of secret makes the attraction hotter and much more deadly.
Hannah wiggles her butt into my groin. At least when I was wearing a suit, my clothes did a better job of hiding my desire.
But I'm in sweats and a t-shirt from working out in the gym. I didn't expect to stumble into Hannah late at night in the hallway.
She drags her hand into my hair, pulling me closer as she wriggles against me. "I want you to fuck me."
"I want that too," I whisper into her ear.
"Good," she says and spins around in my embrace. Her mouth is latched onto mine, and her arms wrap around my neck.
There's a sofa against the wall in my office, and I lift her into my arms and set her down on the black leather couch.
I straddle her frame, climbing atop her, pinning her arms above her head.
I should send her upstairs and tuck her into bed. But I'm no gentleman.
She whimpers and moans, wrapping her legs around me, her back arching and hips thrusting against mine. I can feel her desperation. But I'm not going to give her what she wants, not that quickly.
"I want to hear you scream my name," I whisper into her ear, not caring if it wakes the entire compound.