But I’m so tired ofshould.
“Oh, fuck it,” I breathe.
His mouth crashes into mine, and I surrender to the inevitable.
The kiss is bold, claiming, conquering. His hands grip my face, angling my head exactly where he wants it, and he kisses me like he’s a desperate, drowning man finally getting air. I grab fistfuls of his T-shirt, pulling him closer, and when his tongue slides against mine, I make a sound that’s somewhere between a moan and a sob.
The inevitable is becoming the unstoppable.
“I’ve been thinking about this all day,” he growls against my mouth. “All fucking day. Couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t focus, couldn’t think about anything except getting my hands on you again.”
“Nate…” I moan against his lips, my breath stolen.
“Do you have any idea what you do to me?” He’s walking me backward, steering through the kitchen with his body. “Any idea how hard it was to let you walk into that building this morning, knowing Julia was going to try to poison you against me?”
My back hits the kitchen counter, and he lifts me onto it in one, smooth motion, stepping between my thighs like he belongs there, my knee-length skirt spreading. The height difference puts us almost eye to eye, and he takes full advantage, holding my gaze as his hands slide up my legs, pushing my skirt higher.
“I wanted to fly over there and carry you out,” he continues, his voice dropping to something rough and hazardous. “Wanted to take you somewhere the company couldn’t reach and keep you there. Make you forget them, make you forget your job. Make you forget everything except me.”
“That’s—” I gasp as his fingers find the sensitive, bare skin of my thighs. “That’s a bit possessive.”
“I am a bit possessive.” He leans in, his mouth brushing my ear. “And I can be a lot possessive. Does that scare you?”
“No,” I whisper, though it should.
His laugh is low. “We’ll see.”
Then, his mouth is on my neck, teeth scraping over my pulse point, and I stop trying to think at all.
His hands make quick work of my blouse—buttons scattered, fabric shoved aside—and then he’s gently cupping my breasts through my bra, feeling their weight, thumbs circling my nipples until they’re hard and aching.
“God, your tits are unreal,” he says in a quiet rasp.
I arch into his touch, desperate for more, and he rewards me by yanking the bra down and replacing his thumbs with his mouth.
“Fuck,” I gasp. “Oh, fuck?—”
“That’s the idea.” He switches to the other breast, sucking hard enough to make me cry out. “But first, I need to taste you again. Been dreaming about it all night. The way you sound when you come on my tongue.”
My god, the mouth on this man—in more ways than one.
He drops to his knees, right there in the kitchen, shoving my skirt up around my waist and hooking his fingers in my knickers. I lift my hips to help him drag them down, and then I’m bare to him, spread open on his kitchen counter like a meal.
“Look at you.” His voice is reverent and filthy all at once. “So wet already. So fucking ready. Your pussy is practically crying for me.”
“Nate, please?—”
“Please what?” He presses a kiss to my inner thigh, maddeningly close to where I need him. “Tell me what you want.”
“You know what I want.”
“I want to hear you say it.” Another kiss, higher this time, his wet lips lingering. I can feel him smile against my skin. “Use your words, darlin’.”
I’m normally good at asking for things, normally good at telling people what I want and need. Even when I don’t feel confident, I can act it on a dime, because acting is the basis of being an agent. I’ve even been called bossy.
But I’ve never participated in this kind of dirty talk before, never vocalized this sort of need because I never had anyone to vocalize it to.
Yet, something about the way he’s looking at me—hungry and patient and utterly focused on giving me whatever I want—makes the words tumble out.
