He lowers his touch, thumb tracing my mouth. My mouth opens slightly, capturing his thumb and biting down. A hiss of air comes from between his teeth.
I release him, and his touch lowers, to my chin, pinching it between two fingers. He lifts my face, and his lips find mine.
The kiss is better than good.
It’s fulfilling in a way I’ve never had, but always wanted. He kisses me like he wants me desperately. Not only my body, but my lips.
He tips me up, supporting the back of my head, and tastes me. This man is ravenous for me, and I think perhaps I’ve been parched for the feeling. For him.
I push into him, pressing myself against his chest as much as I can. I hate these clothes. I hate this pantry. I hate being here in this house at this precise moment.
Klein’s hand leaves my hip, sliding around to the front of me. Up over my rib cage, skirting the swell of my breast. I arch into him, asking for his hand. He smiles against me. “So eager.”
“For you,” I say, as quietly as I can.
“Is that right?” There’s arrogance in his tone, and I love it. “Let’s find out if that’s true.”
His touch is at the hem of my dress, his fingers traveling beneath it. He feathers over the inside of my thigh, inching higher.
Higher.
Higher.
Stopping at the apex. He runs a hand over the fabric. “Oh, Paisley,” he says, his tone playfully chiding. “What have we here?”
“Paradise,” I respond, in a voice so low and throaty I can’t believe it belongs to me.
He sweeps the thin fabric aside, running his fingers over me. “It is, isn’t it?”
His flattened palm comes up over me, exerting pressure. His hand slides down, his middle finger slipping inside on his descent.
“Ah,” I choke on my gasp, surprised at the welcome addition.
Klein’s nose and forehead press to mine, hot breath mingling with my own. “I’ve discovered Shangri-La between your thighs, Paisley, and I want it.”
“It’s yours,” I pant as he works slowly, torturing me with an unhurried rhythm, as if we’re not hiding out in a pantry and we have all the time in the world.
“Mine,” he whisper-groans, increasing his pace.
It turns out I like possessive Klein as much as I like arrogant Klein.
Gripping his shoulders, I press my face into his neck and inhale the clean scent, holding on as my heart thunders in my chest.
“So. Close,” my strained whisper is warm against his neck.
“I know,” he murmurs into my hair, his tone holding something akin to reverence.
There are noises in the kitchen now, voices, loud recapping of where Sienna had been hiding.
Alarm races through me.
“You’re tensing around my”—he adds a second finger—“fingers. Don’t focus on anything but this. Me. You.”
His pace increases, the rhythm creating a bundle of heat at the base of my spine. In the kitchen, someone says my name. Another person responds, sayingI don’t know where they went.
My fingernails claw at Klein’s arms. Lips pressed to my ear, he whispers, “You can come quietly. Or you can scream and give away our location. I’m a proud contributor to either response.”
His words tip me over the precipice, and with people on the other side of an unlocked door, I shatter under his hand, biting at his shoulder to stay silent.
