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He’d taken the risk.
And he’d failed.
He straightened, already preparing to retreat, to withdraw. Of course, he’d known there was a possibility this could happen, had convinced himself he could handle it. And he would. He had to give himself some time, but he would accept her rejection. He loved her enough that he would never punish her for not wanting what he did. Not wantinghim.
But damn.
None of that meant he didn’t feel like he’d drunk a glass full of nails and bled from the inside out.
“You don’t want me,” Brooklyn whispered, and he froze, unable to leave, to move forward. Unable to breathe. “I know you,” she continued in that low, almost pained voice. “You don’t want me. You can’t...”
“Can’t what?” he pressed when she trailed off. An urgency took residence in him, and he shifted forward until, once more, he neared the desk. “Can’t want to take that pretty, sexy mouth and work it over like I want to do to your body? Can’t want to drag my name out of that same mouth while I put my hands to those curves that have teased and haunted me for years? Can’t want to lose myself in you, watch those gorgeous brown eyes darken as I sink my cock into you?”
He moved even closer until the edge of her desk pressed into his thighs.
“Can’t want to protect you though you’re strong enough to fight the world? Can’t love you beyond reason?” He laughed, and the humorless sound abraded his throat. “Do you know the one regret I have in all of this? Not that I married you. Because even drunk off my ass I would do it again in a heartbeat if it meant I could call you mine. No,” he rasped, “my one regret is that I finally got to touch you, kiss you, be deep inside you, and I can’t remember one fucking moment of it. I would give anything for those memories. Anything.”
He laid it all out there—his truth, his heart, his soul. And his harsh breaths punctuated the room like physical blows.
He stood there, emotionally naked, stripped bare, and he didn’t try to cover himself. Slowly, he rounded the desk, giving Brooklyn plenty of time to order him to stop, to move, to retreat again.
But she didn’t.
And when he sank to his knees in front of her, his hands cupping her hips, he still paused, offering her the chance to reject him.
But she didn’t.
With a half growl, half moan, he pressed his mouth to her gently rounded belly, kissing and nipping at the flesh through her dress. She shuddered, and he absorbed it into his body. But when her hands slid over his head, her nails grazing his scalp to hold him close, he sank into her.
And lost the last of his control.
He shot to his feet and on a low, damn near animalistic growl, he captured her lips, not waiting for her to part for him, but thrusting his tongue inside her mouth.Fuck. The taste of her. He licked, stroked, devoured, giving in to and mimicking every dirty fantasy he’d ever dreamed. Burrowing his fingers under her bun, he tugged, and his other hand cupped and squeezed her jaw, commanding without words for her to open wider, give him more. With a moan, she did.
And he gave her mouth a good fucking.
Over and over, he plunged his tongue in and out, back and forth, consuming her. It was everything carnal, wild. And she wasn’t a passenger on this roller coaster of a kiss. No, she gave as good as she got. And he—he shuddered in response.
Not content with the kiss, not after imagining this moment for years, he bunched her sweater dress in his fists, yanking it up her thighs, hips, breasts, and finally, over her head. She stood before him, all that gorgeous brown skin gleaming against the white lace bra. God, she was sex and purity. Sin and innocence. Every sweet dream and nasty fantasy all rolled into one lush, sexy package.
He hooked his fingers in the band of her black leggings and dragged them down and off, pausing only to remove her boots. Then, with her startled yelp in his ears, he lifted her in his arms and deposited her on top of the desk.
“Oh my God,” she breathed, sitting before him, naked except for her bra.
He took her in, savored the sensual sight that could grace a classical painting in an Italian gallery...and be depicted in vivid color on the pages of a magazine’s centerfold. Exposed, vulnerable yet strong, and so lovely he wanted to bow down before her and worship her.
So he did.
He palmed her thighs, pushing them apart and giving him an unobstructed view of the swollen, glistening folds of her sex. The air in the room vibrated with lust and tension, and her scent, that vanilla-and-jasmine scent, seemed to thicken, adding a decadent perfume to the office.
If he expected her to be shy or modest, she torpedoed that notion immediately when she slid back on her desk and opened her legs wider, fully offering herself to him. Goddamn. Did she crave this as much as he did? That didn’t seem possible. But the glistening wetness on her flesh declared otherwise.
“Patrick,” she whispered, propping one hand on the desk for support and skating the other over his head, cradling the back of it. Pushing him closer to the hot, soaked center of her.
Right where he wanted to be.
He parted those pretty lower lips with a swipe of his tongue, and added a long, greedy swirl and suckle to her clit. She cried out, her back bowing in a deep arch. Her hips twisted, writhed, and he splayed the fingers of one hand across her belly and thrust his fingers inside her tight, hot sex with the other. Dipping his head, he licked the entrance even as his fingers plied her stroke after stroke.
“Goddamn, sweetheart. You’re tight. And wet.”
