“Still with me?” My voice came out rougher than I intended.
“Very much with you.”
She pulled me back down, and this time there was nothing tentative about it. She kissed me like she’d been doing it her whole life. Like that one bad kiss had never happened. Like she was making up for lost time.
Her hands started to wander. Up my chest, over my shoulders, and around to the back of my neck. Her fingers threaded through my hair, nails scraping lightly against my scalp, and I groaned into her mouth.
She did it again, harder this time, and I felt the last threads of my control starting to fray. This was bad. This was so bad. She was my employee—technically. We were in my office, in my conference room, where anyone with a key card could walk in. It was late on a Tuesday, and I was kissing a woman I’d met exactly once, this morning, when she’d knocked over my awards and apologized like her life depended on it.
I should stop this. Should step back, apologize, and blame it on the late hour or the adrenaline or temporary insanity.
But then her hands slid down from my neck, over my shoulders, tracing the planes of my chest like she was memorizing me through touch. Lower, to my ribs, my sides, the curve of my waist.
When her fingers found the hem of my sweater and slipped underneath—warm palms against bare skin—I made a sound I didn’t recognize.
Gabriella froze. “Is this okay?”
“Yes.” The word came out strangled. “Yes, that’s?—”
She kissed me again, cutting off whatever I’d been about to say. Her hands explored beneath my sweater, tentative but curious, tracing the definition of my abs, the line of muscle along my ribs. Every touch sent electricity straight through me, making me want things I absolutely should not want. Making me want to lift her onto this table and?—
No. No. Stop.
I caught her wrists gently, pulling her hands away from my skin, even though it physically hurt to do it. She made a sound of protest, trying to chase my mouth, but I held firm.
“Wait.” I pressed my forehead against hers, both of us breathing hard. “Wait, we need to?—”
“Please don’t say stop.” Her voice was wrecked, pleading. “Please don’t tell me this was a mistake.”
“It wasn’t.” I meant it. Whatever this was—stupid, impulsive, completely inappropriate—it wasn’t a mistake. “But we’re in my office. After hours. And if we don’t stop now, I’m not going to be able to stop at all.”
She pulled back enough to look at me, and I watched understanding dawn in her eyes. Understanding, and something else. Something that looked a lot like determination.
“What if I don’t want you to stop?”
Her words hung there between us, soft but daring, like she knew exactly what she was doing. That was it. The green light I hadn’t even realized I’d been waiting on. Every rule I’d set, every line I swore I wouldn’t cross—gone. Burned up under the way she looked at me.
A low growl rumbled in my chest. I didn’t answer with words. I answered by closing the small distance between us, my hands finding her hips and lifting her in one smooth, decisive motion.
My mouth found hers again in a kiss that was all possession and promise, my body stepping instinctively between her legs, caging her in. At the same time, my hands went to the overdecorated cardigan. I shoved the soft wool from her shoulders, and she was with me, her fingers flying to the buttons of her sensible dress shirt.
While she took care of that, I stepped back a little and tore my own sweater over my head, my pants following, kicked into a shadowed corner. She wriggled out of her trousers, leaving her in just her bra and panties—a simple, lace-trimmed white that made her skin look like warmed ivory.
I kissed her again—deeper this time, hungry for more—my hands finally getting familiar with the body I’d only just startedto learn. I mapped the curve of her back, the grip of her hips, and the smooth line of her shoulders, trying to memorize every inch.
My fingers found the clasp of her bra, and with a practiced flick, it came undone. I drew it away, filling my hands with her, the weight of her breasts a perfect, heavy warmth. A soft, broken moan escaped her as my thumbs brushed over her tightening peaks.
Gabriella leaned back, bracing herself on her hands, her head falling back in surrender. I took the invitation, my mouth leaving a blazing trail down her throat, over the frantic pulse at the base of her neck, lower.
After running my tongue over each nipple, I dragged my mouth down the soft curve of her stomach, tasting every inch, my tongue dipping into her navel before I kept going—lower, slower—until I reached the edge of her panties. I stopped there, breathing against the damp lace, and looked up. Her eyes were on me, wide and dark, like she was daring me to keep going.
Hooking my fingers into the fabric, I tugged them down her legs and let them fall. Then I settled between her thighs, my hands splaying across her hips to hold her still.
I didn’t tease. I didn’t hesitate. I lowered my mouth to her and found her with my tongue, a flat, firm stroke over the swollen, sensitive heart of her.
She cried out, a sharp, gasping sound that echoed off the glass walls. Her hands flew to my hair, fisting in the strands, not to pull me away but to hold me closer.
I established a rhythm—a relentless, circling pressure that had her bucking against my mouth within seconds. She was so responsive, so beautifully vocal, every gasp and whimper fueling my own need.
