“You want me to touch you?” His voice has dropped an octave, rough and low and making my thighs clench. His handslides up my spine to the nape of my neck, fingers curling possessively. “Where? Tell me where.”
“Everywhere,” I whisper.
His smile is slow and wicked and makes my knees go weak.
“That can be arranged.”
His mouth finds mine again, but this kiss is different. Slower. More deliberate. He’s taking control now, one hand fisted in my hair to angle my head exactly where he wants it, the other brushing over my lower back. He kisses me like he has all the time in the world, like we’re not standing on a rooftop a thousand feet above Manhattan, like the only thing that matters is the taste of my lips and the sounds I make when his tongue doesthat.
I’m drowning. Drowning in him, drowning in sensation, in the feel of his hands on my skin, in the solid heat of his body pressed against mine. My fingers fumble with the buttons of his shirt—why are there so many bloody buttons?—and he laughs against my mouth.
“Eager,” he murmurs.
“Shut up and help me.”
I need to feel you.
He shrugs off his tuxedo jacket, letting it fall to the concrete, then makes quick work of his bow tie while I attack the rest of his buttons. The shirt falls open, and I actually gasp at the sight of him—all those muscles I’ve secretly been fantasizing about laid bare in the city lights.
“Like what you see?” There’s a cocky edge to his voice that should annoy me, but it doesn’t. There’s no one on the planet built like this man, like a fucking god.
Still, I can’t let it go to his head.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“That’s not a no.”
I press my palm flat against his chest, feeling his heart pound beneath my hand. His skin is hot, almost feverish, and when I drag my nails lightly down his abs, he hisses through his teeth.
“Careful,” he warns. “I’m trying to be a gentleman here.”
“Don’t be.” I hold his gaze, my heart hammering. “I don’t want gentle. Not from you.”
Something snaps behind his eyes.
His hands find the tie at the back of my neck—the only thing holding up the front of my dress—and with one sharp tug, the silk falls away. The cold air hits my bare breasts, and I gasp, but before I can feel self-conscious, his mouth is on me.
“Fucking perfect,” he growls against my skin. “You’re fucking perfect.”
His lips close around one nipple, and I cry out, my hands flying to his shoulders to steady myself. The sensation is electric—hot mouth, rough stubble, the edge of teeth—and I’m suddenly aware I’m making sounds I’ve never made before, whimpers and moans and half-formed words that might be his name or might be profanity or might be nothing at all.
His other hand cups my neglected breast, thumb circling the peak until I’m arching into his touch, desperate for more. No one’s ever touched me like this. No one’s everbeen allowedto touch me like this. And now that someone is, now thatheis, I understand what I’ve been missing. What I’ve been denied.
It’s devastating.
It’s glorious.
“So responsive,” he murmurs against my skin, switching his attention to the other breast, laving my stiff nipple with the hard, wet plane of his tongue. “So fucking sensitive. I could make you come just from this, couldn’t I?”
I don’t know. I’ve never… I don’t…
His hand slides down my stomach, over the bunched silk at my waist, and then lower. Lower. His fingers trace the hem of mydress, teasing along my inner thigh, and I forget how to breathe again.
“Spread your legs for me,” he orders.
I obey without thinking, my thighs parting, and his hand slides between them. I watch his face as his fingers find bare skin instead of fabric, watch his eyes widen and then darken with harsh satisfaction.
“Fuck me.” His voice is hoarse. “You’ve been walking around all night with nothing on under this dress?”
