Undressed By His Arrogance-Chapter 249: What Do You Want?

He could hear her breathing before she even spoke — soft, uneven, ragged.

He inhaled, steadying himself. "Ivy," he answered, "to what do I owe this... pleasure?"

She probably wanted to cuss him out some more. But what he heard was silence.

He frowned, straightening from the headboard. "Ivy?" he said. There was breathing — soft, uneven, trembling. His first instinct was to go to her room immediately, because for all his shamelessness, fear for her safety always came first.

He was just about to stand when he heard a little moan.

Did she butt dial him?

But then he listened closely.

And everything inside him stopped.

Was she... was... what the fuck?

It was unmistakably pleasure — drawn-out, breathy, laced with frustration and want.

His own body reacted instantly, violently, his cock shooting up as if it had been waiting for her voice all along. Heat punched through him.

"Fuck," he whispered, pressing his palm against his thigh.

And then came the moan that broke the camel’s back.

She moaned his name.

Winn closed his eyes. Life... life could be a bitch sometimes. Or maybe it was the world’s cruel sense of humor — dangling everything he wanted inches away.

"Fuck!" he heard her curse in frustration through the phone — breathless, shaky, close.

That did it.

With the phone still in his hand, he swung his legs off the bed and stood in one fluid, determined movement.

He crossed the room in long strides, grabbed the door handle, and yanked it open.

He reached her door and banged heavily with the side of his fist. The phone was still pressed to his ear, her uneven breathing filling his senses.

It was torture. The sweetest, cruelest kind.

He heard her mutter a curse on the phone. Then came the unmistakable sound of her shuffling out of bed — sheets rustling, feet hitting the floor, her breath hitching as if she was trying to pull herself together and failing miserably.

He exhaled hard, forehead resting briefly against the doorframe as he wrestled his own restraint.

She peeped through the peephole first. Then he heard the soft clack of the lock turning.

The door swung open.

And there she was.

Hair messy, cheeks pink. Wearing nothing but a tank top and shorts, her skin glowing. Her lips parted as if she’d been caught in the middle of a sin — which she had.

Winn’s grip on the phone tightened.

She swallowed, eyes darting to his bare chest, then to his face.

"What do you want? I’m busy!" she snapped. Her hair was a mess, cheeks flushed, pupils wide — every bit of her body contradicting the anger in her words.

Winn stepped closer, until the space between them grew hot and tight. Ivy’s instinct was to retreat, but she held her ground — stubborn as always.

Then he reached for her hand.

He took her right fingers, and lifted them toward his face. She tried to snatch them back — mortified, furious — but his grip tightened. His thumb brushed her knuckles as he pressed her fingertips to his cheek, then lower, to the corner of his jaw.

"What are you doing?" she breathed.

He inhaled slowly, eyes closing for a moment as he traced the faint scent clinging to her skin.

When he opened his eyes, they were darker, softer, infinitely more dangerous.

"You called for me," he said simply.

And before she could snap back, he walked past her, stepping into her hotel room. He nudged the door shut behind him with his foot.

"I didn’t call for you!" she protested, spinning to face him, her face glowing redder with every second.

He lifted his phone and showed her the still-connected call screen, her name blazing across it.

Her eyes went wide. She turned to the bed, spotting her own phone lying there innocently. The damning proof. Her lips parted in absolute horror.

"Oh my God," she whispered, burying her face in her hands before dragging them down in frustration.

"No need to be embarrassed," he said softly, amusement tugging at his lips. "It tells me two things though."

Her head snapped up. "What?" she demanded.

"You’re not letting Eugene fuck you." He delivered the line with a warm, wicked smirk that made her want to throw a pillow at his head and jump his bones simultaneously.

"And you got that from?" she asked, hands on her hips now.

"The fact that you are sexually starved."

"And the second?" Ivy asked.

Winn’s lips lifted into a genuine smile.

"You still want me to fuck you."

Ivy groaned. "Please go to your room."

"I will," Winn said quietly. "Just... you should know that this is torture for me too."

Ivy scoffed. "It’s not torture for me."

One of his brows lifted. "Quit lying to yourself. You never used to."

"You still want me," he said softly. "I will always want you. There is no shred of doubt about that. I would—if us being together didn’t put you in danger that I cannot see coming, or know where it’s coming from, or stop."

Hearing fear in him made everything feel real in a way she had been avoiding.

"Winn, you cannot be here."

"I know..." he whispered, stepping closer again, ignoring every protest she made. "And yet." His chest rose and fell with a frustrated breath as he closed the small remaining distance between them. Just enough to make her hyperaware of the heat radiating from him. "Here I am. Trapped. And still madly in love with you."

"Don’t say things like that," Ivy hissed, backing up half a step only to find the bed blocking her.

"I’ll say whatever I want," he replied.

"You don’t understand!" Ivy cried.

"I do," Winn answered gently. "We are punishing each other through no fault of ours."

"Can’t we just... I mean, it’s an entirely different country. Can’t we just pretend here? Pretend that all is good?"

The hope in his voice stabbed her.

"No!" Ivy whispered, shaking her head fiercely.

"So that’s it?" he murmured. "We suffer quietly? Pretend we’re just business partners when every part of me still—" He cut himself off, shaking his head. "Damn it, Ivy."