Then something shifts in her expression. A surrender. A decision made.
Her hand shoots forward and fists in my tie, the ugly striped thing I bought because the salesman said it lookedprofessional, and she yanks me forward with surprising strength for someone so small. I stumble half a step, so close I count the flecks of gold in her grey eyes. I can smell that crisp scent she wears that reminds me of winter mornings and steel.
"This is a terrible idea," she whispers, and her breath ghosts across my mouth, making my pulse spike. Her voice shakes slightly, betraying the nervousness beneath the brave words.
"Yes," I agree, because there's no point pretending otherwise. Terrible doesn't begin to cover it.
"I'm going to regret this." But even as she says it, her other hand comes up to grip my shoulder, fingers digging in like she's afraid I might pull away. Like she needs the anchor.
"Probably." My voice comes out rougher than intended, gravelly with want that I've been suppressing for weeks. Months, maybe.
She makes a frustrated sound, something between a growl and a laugh. "Shut up and kiss me."
So I do.
I crush my mouth to hers.
She tastes like coffee and mint and the kind of reckless surrender that only happens when someone who lives by rules decides to shatter them all at once. Her lips are soft, yielding, perfect against mine.
For about three seconds.
Then she bites my lower lip hard enough to sting and I growl as the kiss turns into desperate passion. Not soft. Not gentle. A clash of tongues and teeth and competing instincts to dominate, devour, consume.
She makes a sound in the back of her throat that shoots straight to my groin.
I want to hear that sound again. Want to catalog every noise she's capable of making and figure out exactly what actions produce which responses.
My hands find her waist, spanning the narrow curve easily. She's so small compared to me, so breakable, and the protective urge wars with the need to pin her down and make her scream.
"Up," I order against her mouth.
"What?"
I lift her in one motion, setting her on the shelf behind her. Paper packages crinkle and shift under her weight. She gasps, grabbing my shoulders for balance.
Better. Much better.
Now her face is level with mine instead of forcing me to bend down. Her legs dangle, skirt riding up her thighs as she adjusts to the new position.
I step between her knees, spreading them to make room for my hips.
She inhales sharply. "Oh."
"Terms accepted?" I check, even though my control is hanging by a thread and the scent of her is making coherent thought increasingly difficult.
"Yes. Fine. Whatever you want. Just—" Her fingers dig into my shoulders. "Don't stop."
I hate this suit she wears.
Hate the structured blazer and the starched collar and the way it hides every curve and soft place. Hate that she wraps herself in corporate armor every morning like she's going to war instead of sitting in meetings with incompetent males who wouldn't know real combat if it bit them.
The buttons are small and fiddly and not designed for orcish fingers, but I manage.
One. Two. Three.
She's watching my hands with wide eyes, chest rising and falling rapidly. Each button reveals more skin. More of what she keeps hidden under professional layers.
Four. Five.
