He breaks the kiss only to trail his mouth down my neck, hot and open, sucking at the sensitive skin just below my ear. Then his teeth graze my earlobe, and he sucks it into his mouth while his fingers keep stroking me through my panties in perfect, maddening circles.
The pleasure coils so fast I moan louder than I should, the sound echoing in the quiet office.
“Shhh,” he growls against my ear, voice low and rough, his breath hot on my skin. “Be quiet for me, baby.”
His mouth finds mine again, deeper this time, tongue stroking mine. I tug harder at his hair, nails scraping his scalp, and he rewards me by pressing his palm firmer against my clit, rubbing the drenched lace in tight, possessive strokes that have my thighs shaking around his leg.
I pant into his mouth, small desperate sounds spilling out with every drag of his fingers. My hips roll against his hand, chasing the friction, my whole body burning. He groans low in his chest, the sound vibrating against my lips, and tightens his grip on my throat just enough to remind me who’s in control.
The tension builds, sharp and overwhelming, until his phone rings on the desk behind me, sharp and sudden.
We rip apart, both panting hard. My lips feel swollen and wet. My chest heaves. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, hair messy from my fingers.
His hand stays under my skirt for one more second, fingers still pressed against the soaked fabric, before he slowly pulls away. His other hand slips from my throat, thumb brushing my lower lip like he can’t quite let go yet.
I step back.
“I still want to know what you did,” I say.
His hand drops. The almost-smile again.
“I know,” he says.
I turn and walk out of his office without looking back.
I press the elevator button and stand there, waiting for it, my heartbeat doing what it’s doing and my hand still feeling the fabric of his shirt, and the absolute certainty that I’m in considerably more trouble than I was when I walked in.
The elevator opens.
I get in.
I let the doors close.
16
ZANE
She makescoffee before I get to the kitchen.
This is new. For six weeks her mornings have started after mine, the penthouse mine for an hour before she appears, and I’ve structured the early part of my day around that hour the way you structure things around a fact of geography. Today she’s already at the counter when I come through, hair down, one of my mugs in her hand, looking out the window at the city doing its early gray thing.
She hears me. Doesn’t turn around.
“There’s enough for two,” she says.
I pour a cup. Stand at the counter two feet from her. We look at the city together for a moment without speaking and the silence between us is different from every other silence we have had in this kitchen. Not the silence of two people avoiding something. The silence of two people who have stopped needing to fill it.
I look at her mug. She hasn’t drunk any of it. The coffee is going cold in her hands and she’s looking at the window and not noticing.
I don’t say anything about this.
I don’t examine it either.
I drink my coffee. She doesn’t drink hers. After a while she sets the mug in the sink and goes to get ready and I stand at the window alone and look at the city and think about the day ahead.
I think about other things too.
I don’t examine those either.
