I rise to my toes, lean in. Feel his ragged breath rush out against my open mouth. Brush my lips tentatively against his. And then, I’m kissing Ryan Grant in an elevator.
He returns my kiss softly, hesitantly. Then I slip my tongue into his mouth and it sets something inside him loose, his kiss becoming insistent, rebuttals and reason giving way. He gathers me close, stroking his tongue deep, claiming this kiss as what it is—the heady culmination of an attraction we couldn’t have kept under wraps if our lives depended on it. His hands grip my waist, snake up my sides, my back, tangling in my hair as if he’s trying to touch as much of me as humanly possible.
He kisses like a god. Or a devil. Whichever is better, because holy hell, I can’t get enough.
I’m vaguely aware of a bell chiming as the elevator reaches my floor. He spins us out into the hallway, never removing his lips from mine or his hands from my skin. His long strides push me backward and my ass bumps up onto something—a console table flush against the wall—his tongue sweeping and curling against mine in a way that makes me relish the potential of what else it can do.
He crowds up against me, my legs splaying readily open to welcome him. A low, rumbling groan emerges from deep inside him as he presses his substantial erection against me. My pussy clenches with want, heated and wet as hell already. I can’t help the whimper in my throat, nor my hands as they paw at his chest, those arms, his back, taut and hard as granite. I pull him closer, my fingers entwined in the fabric of his shirt, which I want to rip off right here, right now, damn any other hotel guests who happen upon us.
He removes his lips from mine long enough to press ravenous kisses along my jaw, my neck. He dips his tongue into my ear and the erogenous sensation is so powerful, it’s as if he’s touched my sensitized clit. I hear a low moan and realize belatedly it’s coming from me.
“God, please,” I pant. We have to fuck. Now. “Let’s get in my room, I want to—”
But my voice seems to shift the air, somehow. He’s pulled back, his breathing hard and unsteady, his pulse jackhammering in his throat in time with my own. He stares at my lips, his eyes blown dark, wide but dazed, as if he’s waking up from some fever dream.
“What?” I say. “What’s wrong?”
“We—” His voice is hoarse. He unwinds his fingers from the roots of my hair. “Fuck, I’m so sorry, Ana.”
“I’m not. My room is twenty feet away, we’re almost home free.”
He swallows hard, winded, like he’s just run a marathon. “No, I’m—I can’t. We can’t do this.”
“What?” I say, maybe a little too abrasively. “Why?”
“This is a bad idea.”
“You’re wrong. This might actually be the best idea.” My fingers are still in his shirt, and I tug at him so his crotch surges against mine, circling my hips a little so we both feel the friction—the promise of what could be. He shudders, a choked groan vibrating deep in his chest. His eyelids droop, reminding me of how he looked in the car earlier this evening—eyes clenched shut as mybody pressed against his. I thought he was frustrated. More likesexuallyfrustrated.
He gently pries my hands off and steps fully back. “We’re drunk.”
I shake my head, even though he’s right. “It doesn’t matter. I’d want you sober too.”
He looks positively pained, glancing again at my lips, his eyes drifting shut for just a second. “It’s not right. We have over a week left on this tour. I’m working on your book. It’s a huge conflict of interest.” He scrubs a hand through his hair. “I should have controlled myself. I couldn’t—you’re—” He blows out a breath, shaking his head. He tries to be subtle about adjusting himself, but hiding what he’s packing is an impossible task.
At least he’s hot and bothered. But then, so am I. My legs are so weak, I don’t trust myself to climb off the console.
And, much as it’s honorable for him to protect our workquaintanceship, he has no idea who he’s dealing with.
“We can be discreet,” I say. “I’m not going to get in my feelings about it or anything. We’re just two consenting adults who would be making each other feel good for the night. Back to regularly scheduled programming in the morning.”
He studies me, his chest still rising and falling. There’s something in his expression now that wasn’t there before. Regret at not allowing himself to close the deal, most likely.
Well, join the club, buddy.
He rubs his forehead. “Does anyone ever say no to you?”
“No,” I say.
His palm drags down his face. “Never could have imagined I would, either.”
Chapter 8
“So plan to spend the whole day after the Craig Waters meeting in Glendale, stuffing your face with boregs.”
Maral’s voice carries from the bathroom, where she’s adding soft waves to her long hair with my curling iron—she packs light, but sure makes use of the accoutrements I bring—as she tells me about her parents’ call first thing this morning.
“There are much worse ways to spend an afternoon,” I say, mouth already watering at the prospect of my horkoor’s home-cooked delicacies. One of the many wonderful things about Armenian culture is the food, something I miss now that we live so far from our parents, given that I’m incapable of replicating even the simplest recipe. You can find food from any culture in New York, but restaurants don’t make it like moms do. “They know we’re only there for the day, right?”
