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Why I haven’t been able to so much as look at another man, much less imagine myself with him.
After a minute, his lips soften and his hands release my face to roam over the rest of me, one big palm squeezing my breast while the other grips my ass. Despite the gentler kiss, his touch is unrestrained, unapologetically possessive—a king reclaiming his birthright. I feel the thick bulge in his jeans as he grinds it against my stomach, and waves of heat pulse through my body as his mouth trails off to my neck, branding me with hot, biting kisses while his hand leaves my ass to wind my hair around his fist.
“You are fucking mine,” he growls in my ear, arching my head back, and I shudder, gooseflesh rising on my arms as he nips my earlobe and wedges his knee between my legs, making me straddle his hard-muscled thigh. Even through the layers of my jeans and his, the pressure on my sex is sudden and intense, and as he squeezes my breast again, rubbing the fabric of my bra against my peaked nipple, the pulsing heat moves down to my clit, a familiar tension coiling deep within my core. As I helplessly ride his leg, I’m viscerally aware of the starkly male scent and taste of him, of the potent size and hardness of his body, and as his hand delves under my shirt, his rough, warm palm sliding over my bare skin, the tension violently spikes.
With a choked cry, I come, the pent-up need releasing all at once as my body spasms and contracts, the blast of ecstasy curling my toes inside my shoes. Dazedly, I’m aware of distant laughter, and then I’m abruptly horizontal, being carried in impossibly strong arms.
Startled, I open my eyes, looping my arms around Peter’s neck. He’s walking fast, and we’re already halfway across the parking lot, but I still catch a glimpse of three teenage boys on the other side of the lot. They must’ve seen us, I realize, flushing all over as the orgasm-induced haze clears from my mind.
“Peter, they—”
“I know.” His jaw is tight as he covers the pavement with long, sure strides, carrying me as easily as if I were a child. “We need to get inside.”
The teenagers’ wolf whistles and hooting reach my ears again, and I push at his shoulders. “Put me down. Please, I can walk.”
The last thing I need is to be carried through the lobby like some kind of underdressed bride.
To my relief, Peter listens, lowering me to my feet as we reach my building’s entrance. It’s just in time, too. We don’t have a doorman, but I do see my neighbors—two young women dressed up for a night out. They’re coming out just as we’re coming in, and their curious gazes swing from me to Peter, who’s maintaining a possessive grip on my arm.
I don’t know them that well—we’ve only exchanged pleasantries about the weather—so I smile awkwardly and wish them a good evening.
“You too,” one of the women says, openly staring at Peter as her roommate starts giggling like a schoolgirl. “Have a very nice evening indeed.”
My face flushes brighter as they continue down the lobby, whispering and giggling with their heads bent close together, and for the first time, I’m glad my building doesn’t have much of a community dynamic. There are a lot of renters, like me, and with the high turnover in the apartments, people don’t bother to get to know their neighbors—or gossip about them.
“Friends of yours?” Peter asks, releasing my arm to press the elevator button, and I shake my head.
“Not really.” I look up at him, frowning. “Don’t you know that? Weren’t you having me followed?”
His gray eyes gleam with dark amusement. “Of course. But they couldn’t get that close to you with the Feds watching your every move and regularly sweeping for bugs.”
“Oh.” That makes sense—and explains why I only ever saw the Feds.
The elevator doors slide open, and he ushers me in, his hand on my lower back warm and gentle—and as inflexible as steel. My heart skips a beat, then settles into a heavy, pounding rhythm.
He’s herding me.
Literally shepherding me to my apartment so we can fuck.
“You didn’t really think I’d leave you alone, did you?” he says softly as the elevator starts moving, and I shake my head again, looking away from his penetrating stare. My gaze falls on the sizable bulge in his jeans, and the heat in my cheeks intensifies.
Has he been sporting that erection this whole time?
No wonder my neighbors went into estrogen overload.
I force myself to look up and to the side, but that way lies disaster too. The inside of the elevator is mirrored on two sides, and the sight of my reflection makes me want to sink through the floor. Thanks to our impromptu make-out session in the parking lot, not only is my underwear damp, but my lower lip is swollen to twice its normal size, my cheeks are bright pink, and my hair is sticking up on one side.
