"She's beautiful."
"She's everything." The love in Persia's face when she talks about her daughter makes my chest ache with a longing I didn't know I carried. A longing for something I've never let myself want because wanting felt too dangerous when survival was all I could manage. "I never thought I'd have this. A husband who worshipsme. A daughter who makes every hard thing worth it. But I do. And you can too, if you're brave enough to reach for it."
We part outside the restaurant with another hug and a promise to do this again soon. I watch her slide into a waiting car, my mind spinning with everything she said.
Trust builds. A thousand small moments.
I'm still cataloging the moments Drake has given me when I step off the elevator at Redthorne, my heels clicking against the marble floor in a rhythm that matches my scattered heartbeat.
A hand closes around my wrist.
Before I can react, I'm being pulled sideways through a door I barely register. The sound of the lock engaging echoes through the sudden silence, and I find myself in an empty boardroom with my back pressed against the polished conference table and Drake Moses blocking my only exit.
He's shed his jacket somewhere, his sleeves rolled up to reveal those forearms that make my mouth water. The overhead lights catch the silver in his hair, turning him into something almost otherworldly. His gray eyes are dark with hunger, his chest rising and falling with breaths that seem to match the frantic rhythm of my own.
"Drake, what are you?—"
He kisses me before I can finish the question.
This isn't like the kisses we've stolen in elevators and hallways. This kiss is pure, raw hunger.
Demanding.
His mouth claims mine with a ferocity that steals my breath, his tongue sweeping past my lips like he has every right to take whatever he wants. The taste of him floods my senses, coffee and something darker, something that makes heat pool low in my belly and spread through my limbs like wildfire.
And God help me, I let him.
My back hits the edge of the boardroom table and he lifts me onto it without breaking the kiss, his hands gripping my hips with a possessiveness that sends electricity racing across my skin. He steps between my thighs, spreading them wider to accommodate the breadth of his body, and the heat of him pressing against my core makes me gasp into his mouth.
My skirt rides up my legs as I wrap them around his waist, the cool air of the boardroom kissing my exposed thighs. The contrast with the heat of his body makes me shiver. I pull him closer, needing more, needing everything, needing this man in ways that should terrify me.
His mouth leaves mine to trail down my jaw, his stubble scraping against my sensitive skin in a way that makes me arch into him. His teeth graze the spot where my pulse pounds frantically, and I feel the vibration of his groan against my throat.
"You're driving me insane." The words come out rough, scraped raw with desire. His breath is hot against my neck, each exhale a caress that makes my nipples tighten beneath my blouse. "Every time I see you, every time I smell your perfume in the hallway, every time you push those fucking glasses up your nose the beast inside me howls to claim you."
I should tell him to stop. We're at work. Anyone could need this room. The walls are glass, and even though the blinds are drawn, anyone could walk by, could notice the locked door, could wonder what's happening inside.
Instead, I fist my hands in his shirt and drag his mouth back to mine.
He groans against my lips, the sound reverberating through my chest, and his hands find my thighs. His palms are warm and slightly rough as they slide up beneath my skirt, pushing the fabric higher until it bunches around my hips. His fingers trace patterns on my inner thighs, teasing, promising, driving me toward an edge I'm desperate to fall over.
My breath comes in shallow gasps. I can feel my heartbeat everywhere. In my throat. In my wrists. Between my legs where I ache for him to touch me.
When he finally cups me through the thin cotton of my panties, I gasp against his mouth.
"Soaked," he growls, the word vibrating against my lips. His fingers press against the damp fabric, tracing the outline of my folds. "You're absolutely soaked for me, baby girl."
His thumb finds my clit through the cotton and presses in slow, deliberate circles, and I have to bite down on his shoulder to keep from crying out. The wool of his vest is rough against my lips. The scent of him fills my lungs. Cedar and whiskey and something dark and masculine that I've come to associate with safety, with desire, with home.
He works me with expert precision, his fingers stroking and pressing and circling, watching my face with those storm-grayeyes. He drinks in every gasp, every whimper, every involuntary roll of my hips as I chase the pleasure he's building inside me.
I'm close. So close. My thighs tremble around his hips. My fingers clench in his shirt hard enough to wrinkle the expensive fabric. The pressure builds low in my belly, coiling tighter with every stroke of his thumb.
And then he stops.
"Drake." His name comes out as a whine I'm not proud of. I roll my hips against his hand, trying to maintain the friction, but he pulls back just enough to deny me. "Please."
"Not here." He presses a kiss to my forehead, tender and devastating in contrast to what we were just doing. His breath is ragged against my skin, proof that this restraint costs him as much as it costs me. "Not like this. When I make you come again, I want to take my time."
