Max
We stand in complete silence as I hit the button for the penthouse. The moment the lift doors close, I’m on her. I slam her back against the wall, my hands threading through her hair, tilting her head to mine. She grabs fistfuls of my shirt, her fingers digging into the fabric as she pulls me closer, just as desperate as I am. When our lips finally collide, everything else falls away. Any nagging thoughts of the hotel, of Anna’s disapproval, flicker out as Gemma opens her mouth to let me in. The kiss is wild and urgent.
She rolls her hips, rubbing against my painfully hard erection. I groan at the contact, pressing further into her. I’ve spent two weeks imagining how she would taste, how she wouldsound, and reality is infinitely better than fantasy. I need to be inside her.
A louddingsounds through the lift as the doors slowly open.
I clasp Gemma’s hand and lead her toward my penthouse, flicking on the light.
Closing the door, Gemma surveys our surroundings.
“Max,” she says, her voice breathy. “This is where you live?”
I come up behind her, kissing her exposed, elegant neck. “You should see the view.”
I follow as she pulls away and saunters over to the expanse of windows overlooking Hyde Park’s stunning greenery and the historic London architecture lining Brompton Road. The lights of the city cast a golden glow across her dainty features.
“No wonder you work from home most days. I wouldn’t want to leave this place either.”
“The office has its perks.”
“Oh?” she says innocently, fluttering her lashes.
I like this fun, playful side of her. I chuckle and she smiles, turning back to the windows.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispers.
“You’re beautiful,” I say, swirling her around and pulling her close. Gemma wastes no time reaching to unbutton my shirt.
“Fuck, I want you,” I growl.
Her cherry lipstick is smeared and her hair is wild, her lips kiss-swollen and her eyes sparkling with desire. She’s never looked more alluring than she does right now, undone and wanting.
Our lips collide once more and I snake a hand around her, finding the zipper of her skirt, dragging it down. The fabric pools at her feet as she pushes my shirt off my shoulders, letting it drop to the floor.
Once we’re both undressed, we stand in nothing but our underwear, Gemma still in her heels. My gaze roams over her, appreciating every curve and dip of her soft, creamy skin, made all the more enticing by the black lace that wraps around her most sacred parts—like a delectable gift.
“I knew you’d be exquisite,” I say, my voice rough.
“I know,” she says with a confident smirk. I want to devour her.
I huff a laugh as I spin her around, pulling her back against my chest, my arousal digging into her arse. We both groan at the contact.
My hands skim the front of her legs, climbing higher with deliberate speed, and she shivers beneath my touch. When I reach the juncture of her thighs, I trace her lace thong with my fingertips, feeling the damp fabric. She exhales sharply as I bypass her center, continuing until I reach the softness of her breasts.
“This bra is utterly pointless,” I say. It’s true—the material barely covers her, the fullness of her breasts spilling over the top.
“I’ve been wanting to get my hands on these tits since your button popped off during your pitch. This lace has been haunting me, you little tease,” I say against her ear.
She hums, and I work her nipple between my thumb and forefinger, pulling and pinching.
Reaching back, she wraps her hand around me, stroking over the fabric of my briefs. I’m impossibly hard.
“Step forward. Hands against the glass and bend over,” I command.
She obeys without hesitation, pressing her palms flat against the cool glass. Her back arches, hips swaying with a teasing shimmy that makes my breath hitch.
I drag my hand over the curve of her pale arse. “Open wider, sweetheart.”
