My briefcase falls from my weak fingers, thudding onto the hardwood floor. My hands weakly grip his coat to hold myself up, to keep from melting into a puddle at his feet.
He walks me back until my shoulders hit the wall.
One of his hands leaves my hair and slides down my back, over the curve of my hip, and cups my ass, pulling me flush against him. I moan into his mouth, a low, wanton sound that I don't recognize as my own.
He swallows the sound, his tongue delving deeper, exploring every inch of my mouth. He tastes of mint and coffee and something dark and dangerous that is uniquely him. I’m so lightheaded from the kiss that my hands slip from his coat, and all I can do is press my palms flat against the wall for support.
I want to touch him. I want to wrap my arms around his neck, to run my hands through that thick, dark hair, to feel the hard planes of his chest beneath my palms.
But I can’t.
My body is trembling too violently.
I am completely and utterly out of control.
He breaks the kiss, his lips moving to my jaw, my throat. He nibbles at the sensitive skin there, his teeth scraping lightly, sending a fresh wave of desire washing over me.
Then just as fast, it's gone. He's gone.
The loss is so sudden, so profound, that I gasp, my eyes fluttering open.
He is standing a foot away, looking at me. His chest is heaving, his eyes dark and wild. His lips are swollen from my kiss.
He looks as wrecked as I feel.
I watch him as I take a deep, shuddering breath, my hand rising to my lips. They feel bruised, swollen. They feel thoroughly, completely kissed.
He runs a hand through his hair, disheveling it for the first time since I've known him. He looks away from me, at the open door, at the dark street beyond.
A muscle works in his jaw.
"I want you, Victoria," he says, his voice rough, raw with an honesty that is more terrifying than the kiss itself. "I want to fuck you."
The words are crude, vulgar. They should offend me.
My knees grow weak, and my core clenches with a fresh wave of need.
"What's stopping you?" I manage to say, my voice a breathy whisper.
I'm tired of fighting. Tired of pretending.
I want this. I want him. I want to feel his hands on my skin, his weight on top of me, his cock inside me.
I want to be consumed.
His gaze snaps back to mine. His eyes are burning with a hunger so intense it almost scares me. He takes a step toward me, and I brace myself, expecting him to kiss me again, to finish what he started.
But he stops.
"You," he snaps. "You are what's stopping me."
I blink, confused. "I'm not—"
"You are dead on your feet," he says, his voice hardening. "You have been running on fumes for days. You have not eaten a proper meal, you have not slept." He gestures vaguely at me, at my suit, at my life. "And I will not have you for the first time when you are not clear-headed enough to make that decision."
Have me for the first time. He will not have me.
The words are archaic and possessive, and they should make me run for the hills.
