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Henry drapes his arm around my neck and whispers in my ear. “Sorry.”
I pull closer, slide a hand over his firm ass. “Will he have a problem,” I whisper, “if we make out on the floor over there?”
“Come on, Smuck.” Henry takes the leash. “See ya later, Alan,” he says.
Alan salutes Smuckers and then us.
We head deeper into the maze of marble and chandeliers and elegant carpeting and get to the pair of elevators with golden doors. Henry hits Up, never taking his eyes from mine.
The elevator inspection license is posted between the two elevators, just like in our building, except in our building it’s under smudgy Plexiglas. In this building it’s in an ornate gold frame like it’s a freaking Picasso.
“Some fancy action right here. If I’d’ve known, I would’ve put Smuckers in his silver bow tie.”
Henry gives me this look like he doesn’t give a crap. He’s so past giving a crap. He yanks me flush to him, chest to chest, lips inches apart. His heart bangs against my rib cage. His cock bores into my belly—hard—like he wants to make me feel it.
“Yes,” I breathe, immobilized by him in front of the elevator inspection certificate of the rich and famous.
His lips brush mine. It’s a whisper of a kiss. A shimmer of sensation. Flesh nipping flesh. Teasing and electric.
I touch one of the buttons on his shirtfront. I slip my fingers under, seeking his warm body, pressing the back of my hand into the hard plane of his stomach. He lets out a little groan of surrender, then takes my upper lip in his teeth for a moment, catching, releasing.
I find his belly button. I slide my knuckle down his trail of soft hair into the elastic of his underwear.
A ding sounds from somewhere.
Henry’s hands close over my shoulders as he kisses me. He maneuvers me sideways and backs me into the elevator without breaking the contact of our kiss. Smuckers is a blur at our feet.
Henry turns and stabs in a code, then backs me up to the wall, kissing me some more. He slides a hungry hand over my loose hair and then over the fuzziness of my sweater, over my breasts and shoulders, all the way down to my wrists, which he captures in his hands.
I’m a butterfly, pinned by his gaze, as he lifts my arms and presses them up against the dark velvet of the elevator wall panel. Again he kisses me, lips like plush pillows.
“I want you so bad I could die,” I say.
He kisses me harder.
The doors slide closed. Smuckers is a small sentry below, waiting for the doors to open again. Or maybe he’s trying to figure out the strange white shape he sees in the aged gold patina.
“Maybe you should stab some buttons a few times. Get this thing going.”
“Nobody’s stabbing any buttons,” he growls into my neck.
I like the growl. I tunnel my fingers into his hair, grab two fistfuls, kiss his cheekbone, then his lips.
“You were supposed to leave your hands up there against the wall,” he says.
“My hands are in a misbehaving mood,” I mumble into the kiss.
The bar of his cock is finding the V of my legs under the wool of my skirt, pushing and pressing, just the good side of too much.
His breath sounds harsh. It heats my skin like a burn as he slides his hands over my hips.
Feverishly, he starts sliding my skirt up toward my waist. “These skirts.” His hands tremble as he gathers it up, bunching. “You kill me all the time.”
“Henry. We’re in an elevator. What if somebody comes in?”
He pauses to cradle my chin with gentle fingers. His fingers are gentle but his gaze is pure savagery. Maybe he’ll kill anybody who comes on. Maybe that’s it.
His words feather over my lips. “You see me put in that code? That code takes this thing directly to the top floor, which is my floor. This is my front door we’re in.” He kisses me. “My doorway.” He kisses me again, then pulls back to look into my eyes. “Mine.”
