Linda shoots us a warning glance in the rear-view mirror but keeps driving. We reluctantly pull apart, managing to keep it PG—okay, PG-13—for the rest of the fortunately short ride.
But the second the doors of the elevator to my penthouse apartment close behind us, all bets are off. With the box in one hand, I’m at a slight disadvantage. But I do the best I can with the one I’ve got free, fisting her blouse and yanking it from her waistband.
She bats my hand away. “I am not getting naked in this elevator.”
I advance on her, backing her up against the wall of the elevator, my palm flat on the glass above her head. “How about half naked?”
“We’ll be in your apartment in like thirty seconds.”
“That’s thirty damn seconds too long.”
I lower my head to kiss her, but the elevator dings and the doors slide open.
“Saved by the bell.” She ducks out from under my arm and strolls through the doors into the hallway. “Literally.”
“Not for long,” I say, my eyes tracking the sexy back and forth of her ass as I follow her out of the elevator. “As soon as we’re inside that apartment, you’re mine.”
She steps to the side so I can put my key in the lock. “I’m counting on it.”
The lock clicks, and I push the door open. She breezes past me, dropping her purse then her denim jacket then unzipping and stepping out of her skirt. Like Gretl leaving a trail of breadcrumbs.
I dump the box on the kitchen island and follow the trail to down the hall to my bedroom. She’s reclining on the bed, her long, bare legs stretched out in front of her, her candy apple red five-inch heels that scream “fuck me” still on her feet. As I cross toward her, she kicks the shoes off and starts to unbutton her shirt.
“Stop.”
“Why?” She undoes another button, and her shirt falls open. “I thought you wanted me naked.”
She’s wearing a lacy lavender bra that matches her panties and makes her tits look fantastic, and for a split second I consider joining her on the bed. But I have other plans for her. “I do. But not there.”
“Then where?”
“Stand up. Shirt off.” My eyes flick to her do-me heels, discarded on the floor. “And put the shoes back on.”
She follows my instructions, a damn goddess in her lacy lingerie and sexy stilettos. I lead her to the wall of windows overlooking the street below and the Hudson River beyond.
Her eyes widen to greenish-gold saucers. “Here?”
The corners of my mouth twitch. “Worried someone will see us?”
“Are you?” she asks, one delicately arched brow lifting.
“We’re on the twelfth floor. The chance of any pedestrians looking up here is slim.”
She bites her lip and stares out the windows, her gaze going left then right. “What about the people in the building across the street?”
“It’s only seven stories, so we’re a little higher than they are. But I suppose someone could still see us.” I press my hand gently into her lower back, urging her toward the glass. “Does that bother you? Or excite you?”
“A bit of both, I guess.” My hand slides down, settling on the sweet curve of her ass, and she shivers. “Isn’t that what makes it so hot? The sense of urgency. The risk of getting caught.”
Fuck, this woman. She makes me want things—do things—that are totally out of my comfort zone. Things I’ve never contemplated—much less done—with any other woman. Like semi-public window sex.
If I think too much about the psychology of it, it’ll freak me out. Me, Connor Dow, abhorrer of attention, shunner of the spotlight, fornicating in plain view of all of lower Manhattan.
So I don’t think about it. And I don’t answer her question. Not with words, anyway. Instead, I let my hands do the talking. One grabs her wrists and pins her arms above her head, palms flat against the glass. The other slips under the edge of her panties, my index finger grazing her clit.
“Jesus Christ, you’re wet,” I growl. “You weren’t kidding when you said the thought of getting caught excites you.”
“I never kid about sex.” She arches her back, begging me without words to penetrate her. “Or what makes me feel good.”
