His mouth brushes my shoulder. “You talk too much to be decorative.”
“You say the sweetest things.”
His hand slides over my stomach slowly, and my body reacts with deeply inconvenient enthusiasm for a body that was recently filing complaints.
“You still sore?” he asks.
“A little.”
His hand stills. “Then I’ll be careful.”
The words should calm me. They do calm me. They also make heat gather low in my belly because I know what Jordan Richmond sounds like when he is being careful. He sounds like control pulled tight over something dangerous.
I shift against him, and he goes still behind me.
Very still.
Then I feel him, hard and heavy against my backside, and every sleepy thought in my head evaporates.
“Natalie,” he says, voice rough.
“I moved normally.”
“You did not.”
“I’m pretty sure I understand basic movement.”
His hand tightens at my waist. “I have dreamed about taking you from behind since the first week you worked for me.”
The room drops away.
I turn my head enough to see him over my shoulder. “Really?”
His eyes are dark with morning and hunger. “Over my desk. Your dress pushed up. Your hands flat on the wood while I hold your hips and make you take every inch of me.”
My mouth goes dry.
A normal woman would need time to recover from that sentence. A normal woman would ask follow-up questions, perhaps about workplace boundaries or the structural integrity of executive furniture.
I slide out of his arms instead.
The suite has a polished table near the windows, elegant and innocent and about to experience a very complicated morning. I walk to it with my pulse beating everywhere, place both palms on the smooth surface, and glance back at him.
“Like this?”
Jordan’s face changes.
He is out of bed before I take another breath.
His body comes behind mine, hot and bare, and his hands settle on my hips. He does not rush. He only lets me feel him there, lets me understand exactly what I asked for.
“You’re sore,” he says against my shoulder.
“I know.”
“If it hurts, you tell me.”
“I will.”
