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There’s a firm possessiveness to his grip that spurs in me a desire to be his.
If even just for this one night.
I’ve worked my ass off for The Baker’s Dozen. I deserve this.
One night of freedom, wild and uninhibited.
He leans forward and presses a kiss to that tender place beneath my earlobe and I close my eyes, tilting my head to offer myself up to his mouth. Instead, he lowers into a crouch behind me, sliding his palms down my legs. Heat follows in the wake of his touch, and by the time he reaches the hem of my pencil skirt midcalf, I’m a hot, flustered mess, breathing far too heavily for the silence of his hotel suite.
But good God, this man’s touch is like pure fire.
Dawson tucks his hands up beneath the fabric of the skirt, his hot palms grazing my flesh as he runs them up over my knees and onto my thighs, pushing the skirt up as he moves. When he reaches the apex of my legs, his fingertips millimeters away from my pussy, I suck in a breath, biting down on my bottom lip as I wait for more. After a torturously long second, he moves his hands to my hips once more, and it takes all of my effort not to whine in protest. His fingers had been so close.
So. Close.
But then he grips my ass, kneading the flesh in a firm, unforgiving way that makes my knees want to buckle. His breath teases the skin of my left cheek, then he licks a slow stroke over the flesh.
And then he bites me.
I yelp in response, but his grip tightens and his teeth release me. His mouth closes over the place he just bit, and his tongue flicks against my skin. When he begins to suck, marking me almost painfully, I shiver in his hands as heat pools between my legs.
I’m a needy, wanton mess—and I don’t know how much longer I can survive this delicious torture.
When his mouth releases my ass, I nearly groan at the pop that echoes through the room.
Shit, that’s so fucking sexy.
Another tremor shakes my body as he rubs his thumb over the mark he just left on my rump.
“You have the most incredible ass,” Dawson murmurs. He presses his face into the crease between my cheeks and I tense—because what the fuck?—but then he makes this primal, needy sound deep in his throat and I think I’d allow this man access to every single inch of me. He bites me again, more playfully this time, and when he drops his hands, I instantly hate the loss of his touch.
“Turn around, cher.”
I do as I’m told—and quickly—rewarded with a sexy smirk from my handsome stranger.
“Let me see that beautiful body, angel.” Kneeling now, he leans back to sit on his heels and my gaze falls to the obvious bulge pressing against his jeans.
“You’re a bit overdressed yourself.”
He cocks one eyebrow and I get to work on my clothes, stripping quickly because he’s right: I do feel like a kid on Christmas and he’s the present.
Or, maybe, he’s Santa and—
Well, never mind.
Either way, unwrapped and standing before him, my skin pebbles with goosebumps as he trails his gaze over my body appreciatively.
I’ve never done this, never just stood naked in front of a stranger and let them ogle me. Hell, I’ve never even done this with a man I trusted and loved.
But somehow, in this moment, with this man, I’ve never felt more beautiful.
Or cherished.
Which is strange, I realize, but I don’t want to waste a minute of this feeling on analyzing why it feels good. It just does.
His eyes meet mine again and he says, “Tell me something, Sophie.”
Ungh. Anything.
