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His hands find my hips and then he skims them back and around, touching my bare skin underneath the thin straps holding my dress in place. His touch is fire, and I respond like a pyromaniac, wanting to set us both aflame.
I grip his lapels harder as his hands slide across my skin and press against my lower back, bringing me against him. Our bodies are flush and hot and the longer we kiss, the less I can think straight. He’s too good at this, dismantling me so that I’m nothing more than my baser needs. His kiss is the only lifeblood I need. He sustains me with it, not letting up even when I start to feel lightheaded.
His hands lead me further toward darkness as he slides back around to my front, then lower, between my legs, up and inside the slit that keeps the two parts of my dress together. I’m staring down the barrel of the gun as his fingers slide over my panties. And then his finger is on the trigger.
Wet. The word rattles me as he brushes me there. Again.
I shiver and push him away, hard.
I blink my eyes open, and I know this idea I just concocted is wild. I know…but well, this dress is giving me quite a lot of courage, and the last time we fooled around, I was the lucky one. It’s only fair that this time it should be him. I want to drive him mad. I want to provide him with an image that racks through his brain the rest of the evening, so I ignore him when he protests the fact that I’ve broken off our kiss. He even steps closer and tries to grip my chin and seal his mouth on mine again, but I tut like he’s being naughty then lock eyes with him as I start to get down on my knees. My chin slips from his fingers and his eyes go molten. He knows what I’m after, and there’s no going back now. A woman only kneels down in front of a man for one reason, and it’s not to surrender. It’s to wage war.
“Candace,” he murmurs breathlessly, his voice heavy with lust as my hands glide down his tuxedo-clad thighs.
The cold concrete bites into my knees as I settle in place, but what’s a little discomfort compared to the look on Logan’s face right now? I’m not even touching him, not yet, and already I’ve won. Poor guy.
“You look really handsome tonight,” I say, my hands drifting up higher, toward the noticeable bulge in his trousers. I skim around it like a tease, and he hisses in a sharp breath as my fingers fall on the black button. I shift it out of the hole then reach for the zipper. It slides down with no effort at all, and then his trousers slip down his toned hips enough that I can reach my hands inside and start tugging down his boxer briefs.
My mouth waters as my fingers brush over his hard length.
This is so, so wrong.
We’re at a gala! We’re in a supply closet at a gala!
But there’s no stopping me, not when I look up and see the way Logan is staring down at me, like I’m not quite real, like this is all a dream. It gives me the courage to close my hand around him and start to slide it up then pump back down, harder and faster, again and again.
He groans deep and low, and I know he’s going mad. I lean in close to brush my lips over his hardness and then his hand falls on my hair, tangling in the strands. Just like that, he’s mine, utterly lost in my mouth as I take him deeper.
My lips tighten around him and my hand keeps pumping and Logan’s eyes flutter closed then blink open quickly, as if he doesn’t want to miss a single moment of what I’m doing to him. Our gazes connect and there’s a transfer of emotion, like he’s trying to tell me something, but I can’t make out exactly what it is. I’m too scared to let the full weight of it sink into me. So, I use my mouth and my tongue and my lips and let my body do all the talking.
He whispers my name and then his hips start to pump forward, harder, taking back a little control. I ease up and let him, and now the tables have turned. He’s using me now, and all the uncomfortable sensations come flooding in: my aching jaw, the cold concrete, the burning desire to suck in a deep breath of air. I’m almost at my tipping point, close to tapping out—but then his hand soothes my hair and my eyes find his again and I see the emotion there. The adoration and the need, pure and simple. He’s so close so I dig a little deeper, ignoring the ache, and choose to stay down on my knees in this closet, letting him use my mouth, knowing he loves it, knowing ultimately, I’m responsible for that look on his face right now. Then, finally, when I’m desperate for air, he jerks forward and his body shakes with uncontrolled surges as he finishes. Shattered. Done. So am I.
