My skirt is gone faster than physics can explain. My boots hit the floor one after the other. My panties follow, tucked into his pocket.
“Hey, those are mine,” I say.
He presses his mouth to the inside of my knee. “They were.” His teeth graze higher, and I forget my argument.
“Skylor?”
He looks at me again. “Do you want them back?”
I nod. But then my body goes slick and hot under his hands. His nostrils flare.
“Liar,” he murmurs.
Then his mouth is on me. The first stroke of his tongue steals the room. My hands slap down on the table. His tongue moves slowly, deliberately, cruel in its patience. The aphrodisiac slides through me with that dark, melting rush I know now, loosening every thought, every muscle, every careful line I drew around myself today. He licks me like a reward and a claim and a promise he has no intention of breaking.
I lift my head and look down.
Mistake.
Beautiful mistake.
His shoulders fill the space between my thighs. His hands hold me open. His mouth works me with focused hunger, tongue flattening, circling, dipping inside just enough to make my hipsjerk. His ears angle toward every sound I make, traitorous little witnesses. When I moan, they rotate faster.
“You like hearing me,” I gasp.
He groans against my clit. The vibration makes my spine bow.
“Answer me.”
He lifts his mouth only enough to say, “I live for it.” Then he sucks me into his mouth.
The orgasm comes too fast. Embarrassingly fast. Conference-table fast. My thighs clamp around his head. One hand finds his ear and grips the ridge, and the sound he makes against me turns the pleasure vicious. I come hard, hips lifting, breath breaking, one heel scraping against his back while papers scatter under my elbow.
He does not stop.
“Skylor,” I repeat. Because my vocabulary has shrunk to his name.
His fingers slide inside me.
Two, deep and perfect.
I sob. There is no prettier word for it. The first orgasm has barely finished and he is already building the next, tongue and fingers and that wicked alien chemistry making a mess of my professional recovery. My hand tightens on his ear. His hips grind against nothing. I feel his pleasure through the bond now, dark and rough and barely leashed.
That does it.
The second orgasm rises slower, heavier, pulling from somewhere deep enough to scare me. He curls his fingers and presses his tongue exactly where I need it. My thighs shake. The table creaks.
“If this breaks,” I gasp, “you are explaining it to maintenance."
His mouth curves against me.
The bastard smiles.
Then he does something devastating with the tip of his tongue, and I stop caring about anything other than my own bones.
I come with his name in my mouth and his ear in my hand.
He rises over me looking obscene. My slick shines on his mouth. His eyes are almost black. His control hangs by fraying threads. He’s magnificent.
