She unbuttons her blouse, and I stop breathing. She pulls it to the side, showing me her soft, creamy stomach, and then pulling it to the side of her bra, where the underside of her breast goes from rib to curve. Goosebumps across her side.
“Here.”
I grip my knees like a vise because otherwise, I’m pulling her into my body and doing everything I want to do and know I shouldn’t. My pulse hammers in my throat. Her skin is six inches from my hands and the smell of her fills my lungs and all I can think about is my mouth on the underside of her breast. I want to strip her shirt off and lay her back in this chair and put my hands everywhere and take her virginity right here under the neon.
“Are you doing this on purpose?”
She looks at me over her shoulder and bats her eyes at me. “Doing what?”
Her flirting is awkward, but she knows exactly what she’s doing.
I stand up from the stool.
She pulls her blouse closed and slowly starts re-buttoning it. Clarissa turns in the chair to face me; her knees apart because of how the chair reclines.
Her eyes drop. From my face, down my chest, past my belt. I know she sees how hard I am and how my cock is straining against the seam. She looks right at it, and I can feel every beat of my pulse throbbing against the zipper.
She looks for a long time, and her lips part, the tip of her tongue touches her bottom lip—slow—and then her teeth close on it. She holds it there. Her eyes come back up to mine.
“What if I’m not sorry,” she says, “about doing that to you?”
CHAPTER 6
CLARISSA
My office. Now.”
His hand closes around mine, and he pulls me out of the chair and down the hall, past the supply closet to his office. His thumb drags across the back of my hand slowly, back and forth, and the drag of it makes my core slicker and hotter.
Once we’re in his office and he kicks the door closed, his hands come up to my face. His thick fingers gently hold my jaw. He doesn’t kiss me. He just looks, his eyes dark and deep, close enough that I can feel his breath, and my skin burns every place his hands are touching.
“Are you sure about this?” His voice has dropped lower than I’ve ever heard it. His thumbs go still, but he doesn’t release me.
“I’m not leaving. I choose you,” I say, wrapping my arms around him. “I choose this.”
The careful goes out of him all at once. His mouth comes down on mine, and his hands leave my face for my waist, pulling me against his muscular body, and the groan starts in his chestand travels into my palms before I hear it. I open my mouth instinctively, moaning as his tongue teases mine.
His fingers find the top button of my blouse, and he unfastens it slowly. One button, the gap, the next button, his eyes on what his hands are doing. I can’t stop watching his face—his jaw, his mouth, how steady he is when I’m shaking this hard. I’ve never felt this alive and electric, and I don’t know how to handle it other than to share it with Carmine.
He slides my blouse off my shoulders and unfastens my bra. Then there’s nothing between his eyes and my bare skin. He looks at me like I’m a meal he wants to devour.
And I want him to. I want Carmine so much that my skin aches for him.
He cups my breasts and drags his thumbs across my nipples, and my knees wobble. His arm catches me, and he does it again slowly, both thumbs, and the moan that comes out of me is loud in the quiet office. I give myself over to the burning lust coursing through me.
The backs of my knees hit the couch and I’m sitting and he’s down on the floor in front of me and then his mouth is on my breast, hot and wet, his tongue circling, and my fingers fist in his hair without asking me first.
God. Oh my god.
His tongue goes slow and then less slow. When I arch, he gives me more. When I pull his hair, he gives me more than that. My free hand scrabbles for the back of the couch because the ache between my legs has been climbing since his hands were on my face and his mouth is making it unbearable and I’m grindingagainst the cushion trying to relieve it and there’s nothing I can do.
He drags his mouth to the other side, and the cold air hits the wet he left behind. I lose the thread of every thought I had.
Somehow my hands are on his belt.
He stops against my breast, breath catching hot on my skin. I can’t get the buckle. The leather, the little metal tongue—I’ve never done this; my fingers are stupid and clumsy and he lets me fumble, his forehead dropping to my collarbone, breathing hard against my throat while I work. The buckle. The button. The zipper, loud. My knuckles brush cotton, and he sucks a sharp breath through his nose and holds it.
I press my palm against him.
