His tongue sweeps across my lower lip and I open for him. The kiss deepens and intensifies. I've never been kissed like this. Like I'm something he needs. Something he's been denying himself.
My back hits the passenger door. I didn't even realize I'd been moving. Or that he'd been moving. But now he's leaning over the console, crowding me against the door, and his body is over mine, solid and overwhelming.
His hand slides from my waist to my hip. Higher. His thumb brushes the underside of my breast and I gasp against his mouth.
He pulls back just enough to look at me. His eyes are almost black. His breathing is as ragged as mine.
The parking lot is empty except for us, the glow of the streetlights casting long shadows across the asphalt. His thumb moves again, this time deliberately, tracing the curve of my breast through the thin fabric of my dress. I should stop him. I should push him away. But my body arches into his touch, betraying every thought I’ve ever had about self-control.
“You’re infuriating,” he growls, his voice rough, his breath hot against my lips. “You drive me out of my fucking mind.”
“Then stop,” I whisper, but it’s not a protest. “If you don’t like it.” It’s a dare.
His mouth crashes back onto mine, harder this time, his teeth nipping at my lower lip. I moan, the sound swallowed by his kiss. His hand slides up, his palm cupping my breast, his thumb flicking over my nipple through the fabric. I gasp, my nails digging into his shoulders. He groans, his hips pressing forward, pinning me against the door. I can feel him—hard,insistent—through his pants, and it sends a jolt of heat straight between my thighs.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs against my neck, his lips trailing down to the sensitive skin just below my ear. His teeth graze my pulse point, and I shudder.
I don’t.
Instead, my hands slide down his chest, my fingers fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. I need to touch him. Need to feel his skin under my hands. He lets me, his breath hitching as I push the fabric aside, my palms flattening against the hard planes of his chest. His skin is hot, his heart pounding under my touch.
“Fuck,” he mutters, his forehead dropping to my shoulder. His hand pulls my dress off one shoulder and slips underneath, his thumb brushing over my nipple again. This time with nothing between us. I whimper, my head falling back against the window.
“You’re so damn stubborn,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “But God, you feel good in my hands.”
I don’t answer. I can’t. My breath is coming in short, sharp gasps as his mouth finds mine again, his kiss slower now, deeper.
“Tell me you want this,” he demands, his voice rough, his eyes burning into mine.
I should lie. I should push him away. But the truth spills out before I can stop it.
“I do.”
His mouth is on mine again, swallowing my words, his hand sliding lower, under the hem of my dress. I gasp, my hips lifting off the seat, my body aching for more.
I can’t think. Can’t breathe. Can only feel the heat of his body, the rough slide of his fingers, the way his mouth claims mine like he’s starving for me. The world outside the car doesn’t exist. There’s only this. Only him.
And then his damn phone rings.
The sound is jarring, a sharp intrusion into the haze of desire. He freezes, his forehead resting against mine, his breath ragged. The phone rings again.
“Ignore it,” I whisper, my voice barely a sound.
He hesitates, his eyes searching mine. Then, with a curse, he pulls back. “Fuck,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair again. He reaches for his phone.
I sit back, my chest rising and falling, my body still humming with need. The air between us is thick with what just happened, with what we almost did. With what we still might.
If my plan doesn’t work.
He glances at the screen, then back at me. “It’s work,” he says, his voice rough. “I have to take it. It’s Bruno.”
I nod, my lips still swollen from his kisses, my body still throbbing.
He steps out of the car to take the call while I rearrange my dress. A few minutes later, he slides back into the driver’s seat and starts the engine.
“Sorry about that,” he says, back in control now. “I need to take care of something that won’t wait.”
I nod. “I understand.”
