Page 89 of His Good Girl

Then he reached for me.

His hand slid into the hair at the back of my head, fingers threading through the loose pieces that had escaped the knot, firm enough to make me gasp and careful enough that I could have pulled away if I wanted to, but I did not. My notebook fell from my hand and hit the floor with a flat, forgotten sound. I stepped toward him at the same moment he drew me in, and then his mouth was on mine.

There was nothing polite, professional, or godfatherly about the kiss.

It was thorough and hot and devastating, like he had spent days deciding exactly how he would ruin me if he ever let himself start. His mouth moved over mine once, testing, and when I opened for him, his grip tightened in my hair and a low sound that went straight through me rumbled from his chest. He kissed me deeper, with a ravenous hunger that made my knees weaken. His other hand came to my waist, dragging me closer until I felt the hard line of his cock through our clothes, the proof of what I had suspected, imagined, and tried not to want.

I let a small sound escape into his mouth, and he stopped, but didn’t pull away. His lips stayed near mine. His breath wasrough, his hand still in my hair, his body held with such violent restraint I could feel the tremor of it.

“Tell me to stop,” he implored.

I opened my eyes to see that he looked wrecked.

Callum Rowe, who had spent the past few days looking like the epitome of self-control sculpted into the shape of a man, stood with his forehead almost touching mine, his eyes holding mine captive, as if letting go required more strength than holding on.

I should have said something sensible.

Instead, I whispered, “No.”

His eyes closed briefly.

Then he kissed me again.

This time, I met his kiss head on. I put both hands on his chest, feeling the heat of him through the fine cotton of his shirt, the solid muscle beneath. Grasping the material in my clenched fingers, I pulled myself closer. Some last careful thread snapped within him. He turned me so my back met the door, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to make the breath leave me in a rush. His hand protected the back of my head even as his mouth took mine again, deeper, darker, his tongue sliding against mine until need spread through me in a hot, helpless wave.

I had imagined his hands for days.

The reality was so much better.

One in my hair, holding me exactly where he wanted me. One at my waist, large and firm, thumb pressing into the soft place under my ribs. My body softened against him. My core fluttered,then clenched with need so intense that I whimpered against his mouth.

He heard it.

He broke the kiss and drew back just enough to look at me.

My lips felt swollen. My breathing was uneven. My hair had come half loose under his hand, and his thumb moved once against the nape of my neck before he seemed to realize he was doing it. His eyes followed the motion, then returned to mine.

“You understand,” he rumbled, voice rough and low and resonant, “that this cannot be careless.”

I nodded.

His grip in my hair tightened slightly. “Words, Avery.”

“Yes,” I whispered. “I understand.”

“This changes things.”

“Yes.”

“It doesn’t change your job.”

“No.”

“It doesn’t change the expectations.”

“I know.”

“You do not get special treatment.”