I was wrong.
Arthur kisses like no one else. Like nothing else. His mouth is firm and commanding, demanding more while giving more at the same time. He does not just press his lips to mine, he devours, he caters, he claims. The sound that slips out of me is closer to a whimper than a moan when he tilts his head and deepens the kiss, his teeth grazing my bottom lipbefore tugging gently. I gasp, and my fingers dive into his hair, twisting, clutching, desperate for more.
One of his hands cups the side of my throat, steady and protective, while the other drags me impossibly closer, sealing me against him until I can feel every taut, powerful line of his body. Then I feel it. Solid, heavy, throbbing heat pressed between my thighs, right where I am aching most. The sensation rips another gasp from me, this one sharper, needier. My hips jerk instinctively, grinding against him before I think better of it. I am wet, aching, trembling with the force of wanting.
And still, he has the audacity to pull back.
I clutch his hair, trying to drag him down again, but his hand slides firmly to my hip, stilling my frantic movements. I groan in frustration, nearly feral, which only earns me that flicker of amusement in his eyes.
“Tell me, Elliot.” His voice is gravel dipped in velvet, deep and rough enough to vibrate through my bones. “Are you still operating under the false assumption that I don’t want to kiss you?”
“Well…” My voice is wrecked, breathless, like I’ve just run sprints. My pulse is a bass drum in my ears. “You did stop. So if you really want to convince me…”
The corner of his mouth lifts into a smile. Then his lips crash back onto mine, cutting off whatever else I was about to say. This time, the kiss is harder, hungrier, and I feel dizzy, drunk, utterly undone. He tastes of mint, sharp and clean, while his scent, cedar and spice and pure masculine heat, wraps around me until I cannot tell where I end and he begins.
My thighs spread wider of their own accord, begging without words for him to give me more, to press harder, to brand me with his weight and strength. He complies, grinding his hips against me with a force that makes my breath stutter. Iwant bruises. I want reminders. I want to carry him with me even when he’s not here.
The sharp thud of my head hitting the cupboard behind me barely registers through the haze.
Arthur jerks back instantly, his hand flying to cradle the back of my skull, his eyes searching mine, voice tight with concern. “Are you alright?”
“I didn’t even feel it.” My lips are already finding his ear, my voice low, needy, shameless. “I felt something lower, though.”
He drops his head lower, trailing his nose against the column of my neck, he inhales deeply. “Christ. How do you always smell like that?”
“Like what?” I try not to giggle even though it tickles as he nestles in closer.
“Like vanilla and sugar and—” He sniffs me again. “I don’t know. Fucking happiness.”
I am floating. Heaven presses against me in the form of his chest and arms. For a dizzy second I’m sure I have reached Nirvana. Bells ring somewhere inside my skull and everything is bright and good in the best possible way.
Wait. I really can hear bells.
“My alarm,” I groan as I pull away, my head thudding hard against the cupboard.
“Stop hitting your head,” Arthur says, reluctantly loosening his hold.
I slide off the counter on rubber-legs. He keeps both massive arms braced on either side of me so I have to duck under one to reach for my phone. It’s exactly where I left it, on the treatment table, a tiny rectangular cock block. I silence the alarm with a tap and turn back to him.
He looks unchanged from the moment he walked in: perfectly put together, everything exactly where it should be. The suit is immaculate, the shirt crisp. The one exception isthe way his trousers tent at the front. It makes my cheeks go hot and my pulse stutter.
I feel as though I have been run through an industrial dishwasher on a power clean cycle. My hair clings to my neck. I tuck damp strands behind my ears with hands that are still shaking.
“My patient will be here in a few minutes,” I tell him, trying, but failing, to find my professional voice.
“Of course,” he replies, calm as ever. “Why don’t you stop by my office at your first available opportunity. I would like to work out logistics sooner rather than later.”
“Logistics?” I echo, because it sounds like a business meeting.
“Yes. Even though HR shouldn’t take issue with us dating, I would like to formally notify them of the relationship to keep everything above board.”
A small, involuntary sound leaks out of me. “Are you serious?”
“Almost always,” he says without blinking. “At this moment? Entirely.”
I swallow, searching for words that make sense. “It’s just…I don’t think I understand.”
“What do you not understand?”
