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I leaned closer, the tie and my breasts flush to his skin as I breathed against his neck and up to his ear. “Say it.” I squeezed, excited by the tensing of his muscles. Could he be strung any tighter?
But he was frustratingly quiet.
The rasp of his beard against my skin, the heat of him in my hand, the solid body under me—all of it drove me a little more insane. I followed instinct, listened to his breathing, and risked a look at him.
Passion exploded between us. His fingers raked through my hair and tangled at the back. He drew my head back and feasted on my neck. He was reaching for something next to us and finally, I figured out it was his suit jacket.
For what?
He hadn’t let me cover up for what felt like hours.
I whimpered when his beard abraded my neck and down my chest. The material of his slacks rubbed against my inner thighs and swollen tissues up higher. I ached. I’d heard the term before, but now I knew what it meant.
It wasn’t exquisite or exciting—the books got it wrong there. It was unending and crazy-mak
ing. It was as if my skin didn’t fit. This kind of ache would end with madness. Worse than before, when I’d been teased within an inch of murder—that was nothing compared to how wound I was right now.
Then I heard the crinkle of something and whispered, “Yes, thank God.”
Condom.
Finally.
“Stand for me, Ms. Copeland.”
Stand?
Was he on drugs? My legs didn’t work right now. I was on the verge of another freaking orgasm, and he hadn’t even touched me.
The verge, goddammit.
“Please.”
I shuddered out a breath at his hoarse plea. I used his shoulders to stand, my legs quivering as cramped muscles stretched, and my pins-and-needles feet regained a measure of circulation. But I wouldn’t let him see my discomfort. He already had far too much power tonight.
His nostrils flared as he used the corner of the vestibule to get to his feet. I lifted my chin and met his gaze. My skin was flushed, and I was a moment away from screaming, but I stood there and let him look his fill.
He walked toward me, his dress shoes on slate the only sound in our little haven. Well, the only one I could hear around the heartbeat that had climbed between my ears. I backed up. Not like there was anywhere I could go. We were in a ten-foot-by-ten-foot cage.
My shoulders hit the opposite corner, a few feet away from the door.
He ripped open the condom and took himself in hand.
I swallowed.
I’d wrapped my fingers around him, but within the shadows and folds of clothing, I hadn’t really gotten a good idea of just how…substantial he was. My fingers were small, but his were not. He looked down at himself for a second, then watched my face as he rolled the condom down his length.
Suit pants and dark boxers framed his shaft. He wasn’t even going to take that much off?
And yet, that’s what made it so much worse for me. I didn’t want him to. What did that say about me? That he was just an instrument of pleasure? That I was using him as he used me?
No.
No, Grace…that is definitely not the truth.
I wasn’t going to just let him take control of the entire situation this time. I moved into him as if he was my own personal polarized magnet. He met me halfway and leaned down enough for me to wind my arms around his shoulders. He lifted me, and my legs went around his waist.
No hesitation.
