Page 49 of My Possessive Boss

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I do not know where the bravery comes from. Lack of sleep, probably. Possibly sexual possession. Maybe the strawberry tart altered my blood chemistry.

I say it again, softer. “Yes, sir.”

His control snaps.

His hand tightens in my hair, and he groans my name as I take him back into my mouth. He does not force me. He does not need to. His restraint turns rough around the edges, his instructions darker, his praise lower, and I follow every word because making Jordan Richmond come apart feels like discovering fire and deciding to keep it.

“That’s it. Use your hand. Just like that.”

I do.

His breathing breaks.

“Do not stop.”

I do not.

He comes with a harsh groan, one hand gripping the sheet, the other tangled in my hair, and I swallow what I can while my body shakes with the knowledge that I did that to him.

When I pull back, my lips feel swollen, my cheeks are hot, and Jordan looks at me like I have ruined him.

He reaches for me.

I squeak when he drags me up his body and kisses me hard, filthy and grateful and possessive.

“You,” he says against my mouth, “are trouble.”

“I learned from a very troubling man.”

His mouth finds mine again, and for a few minutes, the world is warm skin, tangled sheets, and his hand stroking down my back with surprising tenderness.

Then he shifts, and I wince before I can stop myself.

His expression changes immediately.

“Shower,” he says.

“I am beginning to notice you enjoy commands.”

“You enjoy obeying them.”

My face heats.

He carries me to the bathroom because walking seems optional when Jordan Richmond has opinions. The shower is enormous, with stone tile, glass walls, and too many silver fixtures. Warm water spills over us a minute later, and I sigh as it hits sore muscles.

Jordan’s hands are gentle as he washes me.

That should make this less intimate.

It does not.

His palms move over my shoulders, my arms, my back. He turns me under the spray and lathers soap over my stomach, my hips, my thighs. When his hand moves between them, I catch his wrist.

“I’m sore.”

“I know.”

His eyes hold mine.