I should tell him to stop. Every logical part of my brain screams at me to say the words.
But logic has nothing to do with the heat pooling in my stomach. Nothing to do with the way my body sways toward his without permission.
“I’m not telling you to stop,” I breathe.
He doesn’t ask twice.
He cups the back of my neck and pulls me to him, and then his mouth is on mine. I know how he kisses. I remember it from that night at the bar, the night that started all of this. But somehow it’s different now. Hotter and filled with need, like we’ve both been waiting for this moment without admitting it.
I grab the front of his shirt and yank him closer. He makes a low sound against my lips and changes the angle, deepening the kiss until I can’t think straight. His other hand finds my hip, and he slides his fingers along the fabric of my skirt.
This is a mistake. A terrible, wonderful mistake.
I don’t care.
I glide my hands up his chest, over his shoulders, into his hair. He groans and backs me against the desk. The edge digs into my thighs, but I barely notice. All I can focus on is his mouth, his hands, the solid heat of his body pressed against mine.
He kisses me like he’s starving for it. Like he’s been thinking about this as much as I have. Every stroke of his tongue is intentional. Every touch drives me higher. I gasp against his mouth, my fingers twisted in his hair, completely lost.
He slides his hand from my hip to my waist and pulls me tighter against him. His heart hammers against my palms, just as hard as mine. We’re both breathless. Both burning.
Both in way over our heads.
Chapter 12 - Menlow
Kissing Kirsten is like coming home to a place I didn’t know I’d been missing.
I press her harder against the desk, with one hand tangled in her hair while the other holding onto her hip. She makes a sound low in her throat—half gasp, half moan—and I swallow it whole. She claws at my shoulders, pulling me closer, and I lose myself in the heat of her mouth.
This is what I’ve been craving since that night at the bar. This is what I’ve been denying myself for weeks. Having her in my arms again, feeling her body arch into mine, hearing those little sounds she makes when I kiss the corner of her mouth, her jaw, and the soft skin beneath her ear.
I trail my lips down her neck, and she tilts her head back to give me better access. She slides her hands from my shoulders to my chest and works at the buttons of my shirt. I groan against her throat when she gets the first two undone and presses her palms against bare skin.
“Menlow.” My name comes out breathless and desperate.
I capture her mouth again, kissing her harder as I move my hand from her hip to her thigh, pushing up the hem of her skirt. She gasps when my fingers find bare skin above her stockings, and I nearly lose my mind at the sound.
God, I want her. Right here on this desk, consequences be damned.
I’m just sliding my hand higher when she goes rigid.
“Wait.” She pushes at my chest. “Wait. Stop.”
I freeze immediately and pull back to give her space.
She’s breathing hard, her lips swollen from my kisses, her hair a mess from my fingers. She looks both thoroughly kissed and completely panicked.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“We can’t do this.”
“We were doing it pretty well a second ago.”
“That’s not—” She shakes her head and smooths down her skirt with trembling hands. “This can’t happen again.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re my boss.” She straightens her blouse, refusing to meet my eyes. “This is inappropriate on about fifteen different levels.”
