The doorto my childhood bedroom barely closes before my hands are on her, unable to maintain the restraint I’ve been clinging to all evening. Watching Jess command the room in that emerald dress for hours, feeling her occasional knowing glances across crowded conversations, has been exquisite torture.
“Finally,” I murmur against her neck, inhaling the intoxicating blend of her perfume. “Do you have any idea what you’ve been doing to me all night?”
She laughs, and the sound vibrates against my lips as her hands work at my bow tie. “I have some idea. Your poker face isn’t quite as good as you think.”
“Only with you,” I admit, finding the zipper of her dress with practiced ease. As I slide it down, revealing the expanse of her back, I recall how my fingers traced this same path on the dance floor, how she shivered then just as she does now.
“Cold?” I ask, echoing our earlier exchange.
Her smile is knowing as she turns in my arms, letting thedress fall to the floor in a pool of emerald fabric. “Not even close.”
The sight of her nearly undoes me—no bra, just the tantalizing curve of her breasts and a thin scrap of lace between her thighs. She’s all smooth skin and quiet confidence, standing there like she was made to destroy my self-control. My body responds instantly, straining against my pants as I take in every perfect inch of her. Unlike last night’s hesitation, tonight, there’s certainty between us, a decision already made, anticipation replacing uncertainty.
“You’re staring again,” she observes, her fingers resuming their work on my shirt buttons as I reach up to cup one of her bare breasts in my hand and run my thumb over her hardening nipple.
“Can you blame me?” Her hands push the shirt from my shoulders, and I savor the feeling of her hands exploring my chest.
Her smile turns wicked. “It was a strategic decision.” Her fingers trace along my ribs. “Every detail.”
I walk her backward toward the bed, my hands never leaving her skin. When her legs hit the mattress, I lower her gently, following her down until we’re a tangle of limbs and shared breath. The playfulness between us shifts, deepening into something more intense as I look into her eyes.
“I’ve been thinking about this all night,” I confess, my voice rougher than intended. “About you.”
“Me, too,” she admits, a rare moment of complete honesty without deflection or wit. Her fingers thread through my hair, pulling me down for a kiss that’s both tender and demanding.
I take my time exploring her body, relearning thelandscape I discovered last night, but with a new purpose. When my mouth travels lower, she arches with anticipation, already knowing where I’m headed.
I press a kiss to her inner thigh and then pause to admire the view. “I believe we have unfinished business from last night.”
“If you’re expecting another glowing performance review, you’ll have to earn it,” she challenges, though her voice trembles slightly.
“I never settle for adequate,” I remind her, holding her gaze as my mouth finds her center.
Her response is immediate and gratifying: a gasp, her head falls back, and fingers tighten in my hair. I work with deliberate patience, using the knowledge gained last night to drive her higher. This isn’t about proving a point anymore; it’s about watching her come undone, about the trust implicit in her surrender.
When she’s close, trembling on the edge, I slide one finger inside her, then another, curving them just so. The effect is electric, and her back arches sharply as a stream of breathless profanity mingles with my name.
“Lucas,” she gasps, her voice breaking. “Please?—”
I intensify my efforts, determined to give her what she’s asking for without making her beg. When she shatters, it’s with an intensity that sends a wave of satisfaction through me that has nothing to do with ego and everything to do with connection.
Before she’s fully recovered, I move up her body, capturing her mouth in a kiss that tastes of her. She respondshungrily, her hands roaming down my back to push impatiently at my remaining clothes.
“Off,” she commands, and I comply, shedding the last barriers between us.
When I return to her, she surprises me by flipping our positions, straddling my hips with newfound purpose. In the moonlight filtering through the curtains, she looks otherworldly, all sleek lines and with a determined expression, her hair falling in waves around her shoulders.
“My turn,” she declares as her hands splay across my chest.
“By all means.” I settle my hands on her hips, content to let her take control. “I’m at your mercy.”
“Dangerous admission, Carmichael.” Her smile is wicked as she leans down to press a trail of kisses across my chest, moving steadily lower. “I’m not known for my mercy.”
My breath catches as her mouth follows the path her hands have blazed, exploring with the same thoroughness that she brings to her reporting. Her tongue traces patterns across my skin, pausing to lavish attention on particularly sensitive spots she discovers, cataloging each sharp intake of breath, every involuntary muscle flex under her touch.
When her lips move lower still, past my navel, my hands fist in her hair. She takes me in her hand first, stroking slowly while her eyes never leave mine, watching my reaction with the same intense focus she uses during interviews. Then her mouth follows, warm, wet, and impossibly skilled, and all coherent thought dissolves.
I’ve been with women before, but never like this, never with someone who seems to understand my body’s responsesas intuitively as her own. The way she alternates pressure, the small sounds of satisfaction she makes that vibrate against me, the methodical way she pushes me toward the edge, only to ease back before I can fall over it—it’s maddening and perfect, and I’m rapidly losing the ability to form words.
