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It made his dick hard. Made his balls draw tight in hunger and his fingers curl with the need to touch.
“So what’s the message?” He rubbed his hand over his face before glancing at the mirror again.
She was leaning against the door; her eyes were glittering with anger, and those lush lips were tight with irritation.
She opened the little evening bag she carried and drew a slip of paper free, extending it to him as she crossed the room, then slapping it into his open palm.
Then, he made the biggest mistake of his life. He didn’t just take the paper and tuck it in the pocket of his slacks. And he sure wasn’t dumb enough to read it. Oh hell no. With his free hand, he gripped her wrist and jerked her to him, shoving the note in his pocket with the other and then curling his hand around her waist and jerking her tighter against his body.
Hell. Fuck. Son of a bitch.
Those firm mounds pressed against his lower chest, her head tipped back, shock and lust brightening her eyes as his head lowered.
He was crazy. He was destroying his career, right here, with a single kiss.
His lips took hers. Like a man starving for passion, a man suddenly, forcefully aware of the hunger tearing into his gut.
And he was hungry.
Her lips parted on a gasp and he was there, his tongue stroking past them, daring her to do her worst with those sharp little teeth. Wishing she would, because then, maybe, he could find the strength to release her.
But did she bite him? Did she rack her knee into his tortured balls as she should have? Hell no, she had lost her mind, too. Slender arms were suddenly wrapped around his neck, fingers plowing into his hair and her lips parting, taking him, her tongue tangling with his as a rough cry whispered against his lips.
She tasted like honey and spice and she went straight to his head. Kissing her was like immersing himself in addictive sweetness. He licked at her, his tongue tangled with hers, and before he realized the idiocy of his actions his hands were tearing at the little straps of her dress, dragging them down her arms. His lips tore from hers to travel down her neck, down the arch of her throat, heading for nipples that, as the pads of his thumbs stroked over them, tightened further.
Ah hell, he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t think. He had to taste.
He lifted her against him, and set her on the padded barstool, his hands cupping those luscious breasts, lifting them to him as his mouth captured one tight, hot bud between his lips.
He’d have thought he could hold on at that point. He’d have thought that the sheer pleasure of finally tasting Emerson’s tits would be enough to give him the control needed to hang on and enjoy it. And in doing that, he could find at least a single thought to remind him that he wasn’t just playing with fire, he was playing with his own career.
But did he think? Thought washed away when she cried his name in that breathless, shocked voice. It ripped out of his head and left him in a reality where the only thing that mattered was her fingers tangled in his hair, holding him to her breast as he sucked at that tight nipple like a man drowning in lust and pleasure.
Sharp nails pricked at his scalp, pulled at his hair, dragged him close as she arched and shoved her nipple tighter between his lips.
Thought didn’t control him now. His dick controlled him. Thick and hard and straining beneath his slacks. One hand dropped to her thigh and he began jerking that softer than soft evening gown up legs that he knew had to be softer.
This was what happened when a man denied himself. When he worked with no breaks to play. When he pushed back lust and refused to drown the hunger for one woman in another woman’s body. This was what happened. Because then weakness became hunger, and hunger became a ravenous instinct that refused to be controlled.
Until the door to the study slammed open violently, causing his head to jerk to the mirror, his gaze to clash with the enraged gaze of the admiral. The admiral who cherished his goddaughter as most men did their own children.
Admiral Samuel Tiberian Holloran. Known as the Commodore to most of the men who served under him. A tight-assed bastard where his goddaughter was concerned.
Macey shielded Emerson with his own body, her bare breasts pressed into his chest as she struggled to straighten the bodice. He felt ice form in the pit of his soul as his gaze stayed locked with the admiral’s.
“My office,” the admiral snarled. “Now!”
Holloran jerked the door open, stalked out, and slammed it with enough force that Macey was surprised the frame didn’t crack.
Drawing back, he stared down at Emerson. Her face was still flushed with pleasure, but her eyes were concerned.
“Thanks,” he snapped as he stepped back from her, watching as she dragged the straps over her shoulders, a hint of confusion, of hurt in her face.
“For what?”
“For staying away from me like I asked you to. You’re trouble, Miss Delaney. More trouble than I think I need right now.”
With that, he stalked from the study and headed for the office and the bust in rank he knew was coming. Hell, he’d just been reinstated back to lieutenant, and for what? So he could go right back down because he was hungry, hungry and hurting for a woman so far out of his league that she might as well be in another universe. The one woman Macey knew Admiral Holloran would kill him over. The one woman he very much feared held his heart.
