Love to Loathe Him: Chapter 30

I stumble into the living room and smooth down my dress as Liam saunters in behind me, looking infuriatingly unruffled.

It’s been so long since I’ve had a man in my flat, I’ve forgotten the etiquette. Do I offer him a drink? A snack? A post-coital cigarette? And now it’s Liam of all people, ending my dry spell. Talk about diving into the deep end of the dick pool.

“So you know,” I babble, “I don’t christen my hallway with just any guest.”

“I’m honored,” he drawls, one eyebrow arched in mock surprise, his lips twitching with amusement.

I roll my eyes, trying to ignore the way my heart flutters at his teasing. Now that he’s in my personal space, I feel exposed. Like he’s seeing a side of me I usually keep tucked away, especially from wolves like him.

I waddle into the living room, acutely aware of the . . . er, evidence . . . of our tryst making its way down my leg.

Oh, for the love of—

Lizzie.

She has obviously attempted to “tidy up” by her standards, but she’s also dragged home more random crap from whatever theater production she was auditioning at. There are corsets draped over the sofa that look like they belong in a Victorian brothel, and I’m pretty sure that’s a pair of assless chaps draped over the sofa armrest.

“Nice place,” Liam comments, his eyes roaming around my living room and landing on the kinky costume explosion.

“Those aren’t mine,” I squeak. “They’re my friend Lizzie’s. She’s in the theater. Very . . . avant-garde stuff.”

Liam doesn’t even blink. He’s probably seen kinkier.

“And it’s usually much tidier in here,” I add weakly, trying to shove the assless chaps under a cushion. “And that palace thing is not mine!” I cringe at Winnie’s Taj Mahal taking up all the space on the mat. Great, now I look like a crazy cat lady with a BDSM fetish.

He gives a small smile. “It’s lovely,” he says. Liar.

“It’s not much, but it’s home.” I shrug, feeling oddly defensive, and bite down the impulse to add Sorry I don’t live in a penthouse with a helipad.

The thing is, I’m proud of my flat. I worked my ass off to buy it, with its gorgeous garden, in London, a city where you need to sell your firstborn just to afford a parking space. I’m the first woman in my family to own a home under my own name without sharing it with a husband.

But now Liam is in my space, and suddenly everything I was so proud of seems kind of . . . mid-range and banal. This is someone who speaks to crowds of people and takes over billion-pound companies, and here he is, in my little space with IKEA furniture and a cat castle. It feels suffocating.

“Can I get you anything to drink?” I ask, wringing my hands to keep from fluffing the sofa cushions. “Wine, water, beer, tea?”

“Just water, thanks,” he replies, casually removing his tie and draping it over the sofa before rolling up his sleeves. The simple action makes my mouth go dry. Is he serious with those forearms again?

I shake myself from my stupor. “Coming right up,” I chirp, then dash into the bathroom. I do a hasty fanny-wash, praying he can’t hear the water running and guess what I’m doing.

Just in case he’s still hungry for more than just water.

I return with a glass of water, a lemon wedge perched on the rim.

He walks toward me slowly. He takes the glass from my hand, his fingers brushing against mine.

Then he downs the water in one go, the muscles of his throat working in a way that makes me want to trace them with my tongue.

He sets the glass aside with a clink that sounds deafening in the charged silence, like a gong announcing the start of round two. Or maybe that’s just the sound of my heart pounding in my ears.

He smirks at me. “You seem tense.”

“I’m fine,” I insist, my voice coming out a bit more defensive than I intended. “It’s just strange seeing you in my flat, that’s all.”

“You want me to leave?”

“No,” I rush out. “I mean, not unless you want to.”

“I don’t.”

Without warning, he reaches out and tangles his hand in my hair, his grip firm. Bloody hell. “You are annoyingly beautiful,” he murmurs. “Just my type. Unfortunately.”

“You sound angry about that.”

“Like I said, it’s distracting.” His thumb brushes over my bottom lip. “I’m assuming you’re reconsidering your position on my proposal.”

“Perhaps. I’m open to negotiations. If I said yes, what would it involve?”

“Once a week, you come to my apartment. We have dinner then I spend the rest of the night eating you out and fucking you.”

I choke a little. I’m not used to this level of intensity. I feel his hardness press against me.

“I know what you taste like now, Gemma. I look at you in the office and want to eat you out on top of my desk. And it’s becoming a problem because I can’t focus on anything else.”

“It’s not my fault I taste good,” I splutter.

Liam’s eyes darken, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly timbre. “You’re right, it’s not your fault. But it is your problem now, just as much as it is mine.” He leans in closer, his breath hot against my ear. “And I don’t like giving up things I enjoy. Now, are we going to keep talking all night, or are you going to show me your bedroom?”

He asks it in a confident, husky tone, as though it’s a foregone conclusion that we’ll be continuing this rendezvous in a more horizontal setting.

Part of me wants to tell him to sod off, to get out of my flat and take his stupidly handsome face with him.

“Fine. This way.”

I take his hand and lead him down the hall, feeling like I’m in some surreal dream where Liam McLaren is about to see my bedroom.

“It’s quaint,” he says, eyeing my room. His gaze lands on my bedside photos. “Are those your parents?”

“Yes,” I confirm, suddenly self-conscious of my un-CEO-like flat.

“Your mum’s a beauty. I see where you get it from.”

“Thank you,” I say, feeling flattered.

I try to see my bedroom through his eyes. Are those my giant granny panties peeking out from under the bed? “I bet this is nothing like your place. Probably no mismatched furniture in the McLaren household.”

“Mine is . . . minimalistic,” he says, and I can’t help but snort.

“I know your place cost ten million pounds. That’s not exactly minimalistic, Liam. Unless you’re comparing it to Buckingham Palace.”

His lips quirk. “I gave you the chance to see for yourself.”

“I was trying to do the right thing. You know, the professional thing, which is not going to my boss’s house to fuck him.”

“And yet here we are.” He starts unbuttoning his shirt. “Still trying to do the right thing, Gemma?”

I swallow hard, my heart racing. “I don’t think it’s working.”

And then I’m just . . . standing there, gawking at him. But can you blame me? Just the sight of Liam in my bedroom is enough to make me wet.

“Come here,” he commands, and my body obeys before my brain can catch up.

Liam’s fingers find my zipper, and I hold my breath as he slowly, torturously, pulls it down. My dress slips off my shoulders, pooling at my feet.

His hands move to my bra, unclipping it with practiced ease. Then he’s brushing my hair aside, and oh god, his lips are on my neck. A shiver runs through me, every inch of my skin hypersensitive to his touch.

His mouth trails down, leaving a path of fire along my collarbone, down to my chest. And then . . . fuck, then he’s sucking on my breast, one hand kneading the other. His tongue swirls around my nipple, and I swear I can feel it all the way down to my toes.

My clit is throbbing, aching for attention. I rise up on my tiptoes, desperate to get closer, to make sure his mouth never leaves my body. Because if it does, I might die. I’ll melt into a puddle right here on my bedroom floor.

I tangle my fingers in his hair, holding him to me. “Don’t stop,” I gasp, not caring how needy I sound. “Please, Liam, don’t stop.”

“I won’t,” he murmurs as his hand slips into my panties, his fingers sliding through my embarrassingly wet slit.

I let out a loud moan as his fingers work their magic. One hand is still between my legs, the other cupping my breast, and oh god, I can’t stop shaking. I’m so turned on I feel like I might combust.

Suddenly, he’s lifting me up, and before I can process what’s happening, I’m on my back on the bed. I watch, heart racing, as he pulls my panties off. The anticipation is killing me.

Then, without warning, he spreads my legs wide and his mouth is on me. His tongue delves deep, and I can’t hold back the scream that tears from my throat. “Oh my god.”

I try to close my legs, overwhelmed by the intensity, but his grip is iron. He holds me open, completely at his mercy.

Kissing me so sensually, so slowly down there.

I know Liam, and I know exactly what he’s doing. He’s proving a point, demonstrating that he’s in control of my pleasure. It’s his way of showing me that I shouldn’t have said no; that I should have given in to the desire that simmers between us.

I gaze down at him and my back arches involuntarily. He looks me square in the eyes, eating me out with a focus that’s almost too much in its intensity. His dark eyes are brooding, fierce, like he wants to devour me whole. And anything Liam wants, he goes after until he gets it.

I shudder and writhe, a mix of fear and ecstasy coursing through me as I try to savor every second of his mouth on my most intimate parts.

Seeing his commanding presence translate into the bedroom is overwhelming. In my small bedroom. Because Liam McLaren is the kind of man who crooks a finger and people kneel. People fear him, even hate him, but they all bend to him in the end. Just like I’m bending now.

For once, his power doesn’t make me resist. I want to give myself over completely. I want to be consumed whole, like a helpless star being swallowed up by a ravenous black hole, powerless against the sheer gravitational force of this man. But what a way to go.

Every nerve in my body tingles as his tongue works its magic. My legs jerk and spasm with pure pleasure.

And then, for the second time tonight, I’m coming. Hard. In his mouth. The orgasm rips through me, leaving me trembling and gasping for air.

“I didn’t think you’d be such a giver in the bedroom,” I breathe as he releases my legs.

“I’m not.” He comes up to stand at the edge of the bed and unzips his trousers like he means business. “I just love your taste.” He says it coolly, as if he’s stating an indisputable fact.

Oh my.

He pushes his trousers and boxers down, and holy mother of all things holy, his massive cock jerks out like he’s been on a high dose of Viagra for a week. He gives it a few hard strokes, pre-cum dripping from his tip.

“Are you okay with going bare from now on?” Liam asks, stroking his cock.

From now on . . .

The thought makes me feel all sorts of things.

“Uh-huh,” I breathe.

He climbs over me on the bed, caging me in with his arms. I run a hand down his square jaw, marveling at the way his stubble scratches against my palm.

This man is too much for me. I feel like I need to gain back some control.

In a move that surprises even myself, I gather my strength and push against his solid chest. It’s like trying to shove a wall, but somehow, I manage to flip us over until I’m straddling him, my thighs bracketing his hips. I think surprise was on my side.

Take that, Mr. CEO.

He smirks up at me, his eyes glinting with approval. “Now you have me on my back, defenseless.”

I laugh. “Defenseless? Oh, please,” I scoff, grinding down on him with enough force to make his eyes roll back in his head. Not allowing his cock to enter, just rubbing my slit up and down his length. “You’re about as defenseless as a fucking tiger in a cage, McLaren. Even flat on your back.”

“Gemma,” he groans.

I lower myself onto him and he grabs my hips, trying to control the movement, but I don’t let him. Oh no, buddy. This is my rodeo now. “I hate that I love this,” I gasp, feeling deliciously full.

His eyes flash with heat. “I know. So do your worst, Gemma,” he taunts. “Punish me for all the asshole things I’ve done to you over the years. Make me pay for every single transgression. Every moment of disrespect and dismissal.”

Challenge accepted.

I take his wrists and push them down on the bed so that he can’t touch me. He lets me do it, but there’s no mistaking the strength in his muscles. He’s allowing this. For now.

I roll my hips slowly in a way that makes him groan. “This is for your arrogance,” I breathe, trying to go as slow as possible. “This is for every time you’ve made me work late,” I continue, rolling my hips again. “And this is for all those impossible deadlines.”

Another roll of my hips, another groan tears from his throat.

“This is for your entitlement,” I say as I grind against him. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard. I can practically see the internal struggle playing out behind those intense eyes of his. It’s taking everything in him not to flip us over.

But he doesn’t. Not yet anyway. And that alone is enough to send a thrill racing through my body.

“You rap your knuckles on my door like you’re the fucking Met police,” I continue, my voice getting breathier with each movement. “Then you just barge in, not even bothering to check if I’m buried in work.”

I pinch his nipple hard but the bastard just laughs, his eyes glinting with amusement. Ugh. But there’s something else there. Something darker, hotter, like I touched him in a way no one else has ever dared and the beast inside him actually liked it.

“Gemma.” He growls my name, and it’s a sound caught between a plea and a warning.

I roll my hips again, feeling every inch of his hard cock deep in me. “This is for your impatience,” I breathe, watching his face contort. “You reschedule meetings at the last minute like it’s no big deal, as if my time isn’t just as valuable as yours.”

He smirks up at me with hooded eyes. His hands come down to clamp my hips, trying to control the pace, but I slap them away.

“You just expect me to drop everything and come running whenever you snap your fingers,” I hiss, leaning down so my breasts brush against his chest.

He has the audacity to chuckle, the smug bastard, like my anger is nothing more than an amusing sideshow for his entertainment.

So, naturally, I do the only thing any self-respecting woman would do in this situation: I rake my nails down his abs hard enough to leave angry red lines.

He sucks in a breath, his eyes darkening with a mix of pain and pleasure. “Jesus, Gemma.”

I glare at him, my blood singing with a heady mix of rage and lust that makes me feel plain out of control.

“You’re the most sarcastic, condescending bastard I know,” I continue. I brace my hands on his chest and start to ride him in earnest, bouncing on his cock like my life depends on it. I squeeze my inner muscles around him, milking him for all he’s worth, determined to wring every last drop of pleasure from his body. “Always with the snide comments and the arrogant smirks, like you’re so much better than everyone else. For years, I had to call you Mr. McLaren,” I seethe, my thighs burning with the effort.

He groans. “If I’d known you got off on the whole boss/subordinate thing, I would’ve proposed this years ago.”

This makes me see red. I wrap my hands around that thick, masculine neck of his. I’m not actually trying to strangle him, but god, it would be so satisfying to see a flicker of panic in those smug eyes for once. His skin is hot against my palms, his pulse thudding steadily beneath my fingertips. And still . . . he just smirks up at me.

“Your damn neck is too thick to choke properly.”

His eyes glint with dark amusement. “Try using my tie,” he murmurs, and bucks his hips.

I let out a strangled moan, my head falling back as the pleasure builds to an almost unbearable level. “Fuck you, McLaren,” I gasp. “Fuck you and your fucking massive ego and your fucking magic fingers and your fucking perfect cock.”

“Come for me, Gemma,” he commands, his voice rough with need. “Come on my cock.”

And I do, exploding into a million pieces, my body convulsing around him.

But when I see him start to shudder, I pull off his cock. And point it right at his face. “This is my flat and I am not your subordinate here, mister.”

He comes with so much force, it’s like a fucking geyser erupting. Most of his cum splatters across his heaving chest, but a stray shot manages to nail him right on the lip, dripping down his chin.

I couldn’t have aimed better if I’d tried.

I can’t help it; I erupt into maniacal laughter. The sight of the great Liam McLaren, with his own jizz dripping down his face, is too much.

His eyes flash with shock, then annoyance, then something darker, more dangerous. For a moment, I think he might actually murder me with his bare hands, right here in my own bed.

But then, to my disbelief, he starts to laugh too.

An hour and a few more rounds of neighbor-waking sex later, Liam’s up and pulling on his trousers like he’s getting ready for a board meeting instead of, you know, cuddling with the woman he just thoroughly shagged.

I look up at him from the bed, my hair a sweaty, tangled mess, my face flushed and shiny, and my body covered in a thin sheen of sweat. I must look horrendous.

He’s not even looking at me, too busy buttoning up his shirt.

“You can stay if you want,” I offer.

He doesn’t pause. “I should get back to mine. Need some sleep before work tomorrow. I have the meeting with Sir Whitmore first thing.”

“Sure.” I shrug, pretending my heart didn’t just sink a little at his casual dismissal. And why should it? This is just sex, right?

“Do I get a lie-in tomorrow morning?” I joke, stretching lazily. “Surely what we did earns me a few extra hours of beauty sleep.”

He lifts a brow, his face a mask of detachment. It’s like watching him slip back into his CEO persona right before my eyes. “That’s not part of the arrangement. We have a full schedule tomorrow.”

I roll my eyes, annoyed. It’s not like I’d actually be late, but would it kill him to play along?

“Hey, I was thinking I should go to that meeting. With Sir Whitmore? If you want me to help with his concerns.”

“Not this one. HR’s presence can’t be justified at this stage. We need to keep it streamlined.”

I bite back my annoyance. I think I should be there, but fine, it’s his call as the boss. The only way this . . . whatever it is . . . can work is if we’re both professional. I’m not going to feel rejected. I’m not.

I get up, wrapping my robe around me as I walk him to the door.

“How about we do this next Thursday?” Liam asks at the door, all business-like. As if we’re scheduling a bloody quarterly review.

“Sure, I’ll pencil it in the HR calendar. ‘Thursday evening: Get shagged by the boss.’ Should I set it as a recurring event?”

He lifts a brow, his lips twitching slightly. “You always this sarcastic after sex?”

“Only when it’s this awkward,” I retort. “What, am I supposed to act like this is totally normal?”

He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “It doesn’t have to be awkward, Gemma. It’s just sex.”

“Right. Just sex. With my boss. Shall I expect a nice bouquet of flowers from Rosie? Should I just pick them up myself and charge the company credit card?”

He sighs again, like he doesn’t find me funny. I don’t know if I’m joking.

He reaches out, tilting my chin up with his finger. For a moment, I think he might kiss me, but he doesn’t. “I’ll see you at work,” he says softly.

“Yeah, see you,” I mumble, watching him walk away.

As I close the door, I lean against it, letting out a long breath. I feel like I’ve been hit with an electric shock after sleepwalking through life, emails, and work, consumed by the daily grind. That’s what being with Liam makes me feel like. Alive.

I can’t slip back into being my old self, someone who’s mopey and afraid of getting hurt. Liam can compartmentalize and look how far it’s gotten him. He’s a bloody billionaire. If he can do it, so can I.

I just need to build a fortress around my heart when I’m at the office. Just because we’ve had a few mind-blowing orgasms together doesn’t mean I have to turn into a puddle of goo.

This is good for me. I’ll fuck him out of my system, help him win the bid, then leave. And I’ll never have to see him again.