Tryst Six Venom by Penelope Douglas

She walks her fingers—index and middle—playfully across the table,
seemingly satisfied now to have me all to herself. “You know what I want?”
she questions. “I want you to stop lying to me.”
Those are my words.
She taps her phone, taking her eyes off me for only a moment before a
song starts playing. “Dirty Mind” begins, and Clay walks toward me,
matching her steps to the tune, almost like a dance. Like she’s hunting.
“Because I know exactly what pleases you.” She meets my gaze. “Despite
what comes out of your stupid mouth.”
Excuse me?
She grabs my wrists and pins them behind my back as she presses her
chest to mine, taking my control for once. I don’t have time to draw in a
breath before she releases me, throws me down into the cushioned chair
behind me, and the chorus starts, her body coming down on top of mine in
time with the music.
What the fuck? My eyes go wide, heat spreading between my legs as all
of a sudden, the music fills the room, Clay hovers over my mouth, stares into
my eyes, and rolls her hips into me.
Liquid fire spreads through my stomach, and I suddenly can’t catch my
breath, breathing hard.
Oh my God.
Cocking her head, she plays with me, arching her back, closing her eyes,
and bending her neck back as her body moves, fucking me with a dance. I
scale my gaze down, unable to relax but unwilling to stop her. I can’t.
I slide my hands along her waist, but she plucks them off and pins them
to the arms of the chair, pushing herself off me.
She backs up, moving slowly—so slowly—with the music, stretching her
back long and graceful, and I don’t know when she lost her shoes, but her
pretty toenails are painted so light a pink that I can barely see it.
Hooding her eyes, they never leave mine as she looks down at me and
runs her hand down her body, unbuttoning her shirt. The shirt opens, falling
off one shoulder, and I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees, barely
able to feel my limbs. She unzips her skirt, her hips rolling with the tempo.
I want to get up. Honestly, I do. I need to leave.
But Iron’s right. Everyone is our type when they’re naked. She lets
everything fall, and her ass juts out, swaying in a circle before she turns and
faces forward, giving me her whole body, naked except for her thong.