“So, you do remember.” His lip twitches.
“I do. So, if you could please…” I hold the pen out to him.
“How was it for you? Did you enjoy it?”
I shoot him a confused look as I ask, “The kiss?”
“Yes, the kiss.”
“From what I can remember, it was quite enjoyable,” I reply. I see something flash behind his eyes at my response before he nods.
“Enjoyable. What an interesting word to use,” he muses as he looks down at the pen still in my outstretched hand.
“How would you describe it?” I ask.
He takes the pen then, and I place my hand in my lap.
“I think I could kiss you better.” Arlo fixes his gaze on the paperwork as he leans over the table, signs it, and when he’s done, he hands me the pen but doesn’t let go when I try to take it. Then he looks me dead in the eye and adds, “On your cunt.”
Holy hell! His words shock me.
So much so that when he lets go of the pen, I do too, and it drops on the floor.
A slow and steady smirk attaches itself to his lips. “It upsets you that I use that word.”
“It’s vulgar,” I whisper, trying valiantly to ignore the pulsing in my core from the way his mouth moved on that hard C.
“Is it? I think not.”
I lean over and pick up the pen, then put it into my bag. When I sit up, he clasps my chin and angles my head ever so slowly to face him, dragging his fingers over my face and down to my neck. I feel the goosebumps breaking out where he’s touched me.
He doesn’t stop. His gaze is fixed on me, watching for every reaction. My breathing becomes more rapid than before. He picks up on it, though, as if it were his intention. His hand falls to the upper curve of my breast, then he pauses. I know my nipples are peaked under the lace bralette I have on, and he can see the response his touch is having on my body.
It’s unfair.
To me.
When I don’t push him away, he moves me backward so my back hits the couch as his hand leaves my blouse. His fingers move and then touch the edge of my pencil skirt, and without thinking, I wrap my legs around his as he moves me to his desk, my ass landing on it. I feel him now, how hard he is between my legs. When I look down, I can see the bulge in his trousers, and it’s good to know that the same effect he has on me, I have on him. I try really hard to keep my breathing steady and not give anything away, but I think that’s impossible, especially with how hot my body feels with him this close. He moves his hand farther up my skirt, and then it suddenly stops.
“I can make you feel good,” he says, pulling back. He offers me his hand, and my eyes glance at the bulge he still has as I willingly take it. One of his hands slides around to my back and pulls me flush to him, our bodies now locked together. He drops my hand and pushes a strand of hair behind my ear as he leans down and whispers, “Do you want me to make you feel good?”
I should say no.
Run the other way.
But, no! I nod as he presses closer to me.
I feel him against my clit, applying pressure with his body. He’s hard, and he wants me. That does a lot for someone’s ego. When a man as powerful and intelligent as Arlo wants someone like me, it is like winning the lottery. Not to say I’m less than, but I didn’t go to college. I’m self-made, which, in my opinion, is just as amazing. But to the really rich, they look down on me when they ask what degrees I hold, and I have nothing with which to reply.
“I can see you losing yourself in your mind,” he says, and I glance up at him. When I meet his eyes, he lifts my shirt and finds my nipple, squeezing it between his fingers, then leans down until his mouth barely touches mine—just a whisper—before he bites my bottom lip and flexes his fingers against my waist.
My hips start moving, and before I can think clearly, I’m grinding on him. And it feels good.
“All for you,” he croons, then all of a sudden, like water being thrown over a fire, there’s a knock on the door, breaking the spell.
I jump, and my lip is still between his teeth, so they scrape against my flesh as I pull back. He removes his hands from me, and I instantly taste blood. I lift my hand to my lip at the stinging sensation when another knock sounds. This time, it was not me taking his blood. It was him tasting mine.
“Fuck off,” he says, low and dark. I raise my head to find him watching me.
