Page 16 of After-Hours Heir

Once they were in the bedroom area, he began to kiss her again.

She wanted to talk. She wanted to sayFinally.She wanted to do this like they would if they were on the phone. Ask about his day while he asked about hers.

But she didn’t.

Instead, she let herself get consumed by the kiss. Instead, she let herself begin to drown in it. In him.

It was magical. Beyond anything that she had ever experienced.

His large hands moved to span her waist, to grip her hips, to pull her hard against him so that she could feel the evidence of his arousal pushing against her stomach.

He did want her. She was here in the flesh, and he wanted her.

It was simply astonishing.

As was he.

He was so much taller than she had imagined. She had thought he might be three inches taller than her, not what felt like half a foot. She could feel how large he was, broad and muscular. He was solid, a great mountain of a man.

Why did this man want to remain anonymous? It didn’t make any sense. But he began to kiss down the side of her neck, and any thoughts of sense fled.

Sense didn’t matter. What could possibly matter more than this?

Whatever could?

She moved her hands up his body and began to unbutton his shirt. She separated the fabric slowly, breathing out as she touched his skin. She could feel chest hair, rippling muscle. She began to tremble. This was almost too much. But it was also not enough. She couldn’t imagine if they were trying to do this with the lights on. The truth was, she was so attracted to him she could hardly breathe.

It was crazy that she could feel this while they couldn’t even see each other. What would’ve happened to her if the lights were on? What would happen if he realized that she was not the specimen that he was? Because he was something else altogether. And it was soul-crushing.

Incredible.

She pushed the shirt off of his shoulders and took a tactile tour of his torso. Moving her fingertips down his pectoral muscles, his abs and back up again. He gasped when her fingertips grazed his nipples.

Her own breath became shallow, and when her fingertips met the closure on his pants, she hesitated.

“Yes,” he said.

She undid them and brought the zipper down. His breath hissed through his teeth. She found herself being pressed against the wall, his hands moving over her body, her curves. Cupping her breasts, bringing his fingers down her hips and to the hemline. He pushed the fabric up, and even though he couldn’t see, she felt herself getting overheated. Blushing.

He moved his hand between her thighs then, stroking her lightly over the fabric of her panties. She was wet.

She was glad.

It would’ve been awful if nerves or something equally unworthy had kept her from enjoying this to the absolute fullest. Because she definitely deserved to feel everything. Then he moved his fingers so that they delved beneath the fabric, and she gasped as the rough pad of his fingers made contact with her slick, sensitive skin.

She had never been touched intimately before. Nothing could’ve prepared her for this. Certainly not the touch of her own hand. He played her body expertly, the pad of his thumb moving over the sensitized bundle of nerves there at the apex of her thighs. He stroked her. And she cried out. The pleasure was white-hot and electric.

Incredible. Unreal.

He kissed her then, continuing to stroke her with his finger, pushing one deep inside of her as his tongue slid against hers.

And she fractured. Dissolved into a million pieces. She crested so quickly she was nearly humiliated by it.

And when she came down, she realized that her fingernails were digging into his back.

That she was calling him Baby.

Clinging to him.