The lock clicked. The door swung open. He pulled me inside, kicked the door shut, and then I was pressedagainst it with his body pinning mine and his mouth devouring me.
I yanked at his jacket. He shrugged out of it, let it fall. My fingers found his bow tie, fumbling with the knot while he kissed down my neck, teeth scraping, tongue soothing.
"Bedroom," I managed.
He picked me up.
I yelped—an undignified sound I'd deny later—as he lifted me with an effortless strength that shouldn't have been legal for a man who claimed his only exercise was morning runs. My legs wrapped around his waist on instinct. My arms circled his neck. And he carried me through his apartment, kissing me the whole way, bumping into furniture neither of us cared about.
His bedroom door. He shouldered it open. Set me down at the foot of a bed I'd imagined more times than I'd ever admit.
I didn't get a chance to catalog the room. His mouth found mine again, and his hands went to the zipper at my back.
"Yes," I said before he could ask. "God, yes,get it off me."
The zipper descended. His knuckles grazed my spine, inch by inch, and I arched into the touch. The dress loosened. He pushed it off my shoulders and it fell, pooling at my feet.
I stood in front of him in black lace and heels. His gaze dropped. Traveled down my body with a slowness that made my skin burn.
"Jesus, Willow."
"Your turn."
My hands were already moving—shoving his jacket off, attacking the buttons of his shirt with fingers that wouldn't cooperate. He helped, shrugging free of the fabric, and then he was bare from the waist up and I forgot how buttons worked.
Broad shoulders. A dusting of dark hair across his chest. Muscles that flexed when I flattened my palms against his abdomen.
“Now who’s staring,” he teased with a low growl.
“Can’t help it.” I traced the line of his hip, followed the trail of hair disappearing into his waistband. "This should be illegal."
His laugh turned into a groan when I palmed him through his dress pants. Hard. Straining against the fabric. I rubbed, and his hips jerked forward.
"Willow—"
"Tell me what you want."
"You. On that bed. Now."
I went. Crawled backward onto the mattress, watching him watch me. He followed, prowling over me on hands and knees, and the predatory focus in his eyes made my thighs clench.
He kissed my throat. My collarbone. Lower. His mouth closed over my nipple through the lace of my bra and I gasped, back arching off the bed.
"Off," I managed. "Take it off."
He unclasped it with one hand—a skill I'd examine later—and tossed it aside. Then his mouth was on bare skin, his tongue circling, teeth grazing, and I stopped thinking about anything except the wet heat of him.
He sucked. Hard. I cried out, fingers digging into his shoulders.
"Sensitive," he murmured against my breast.
"Shut up."
"Make me."
I dragged his mouth back to mine. Kissed him until we were both panting. His hand slid down my stomach, fingers hooking into the waistband of my underwear.
He paused. Met my eyes. I nodded.
