Page 17 of Hard to Handle

And it’s maddening that his only reaction to my touch is to push and hold the door close button on the elevator so we’re not interrupted. To pause this from ending but to do nothing to further it along.

Does he not feel this? The unsated need? The desperate desire? The damn everything that makes me want and need and not be ashamed in the least?

My hands are on the buckle of his belt.

On the button of his waistband.

On the zipper of his pants.

When I cup him, he groans into my mouth. When I slide my hand between the fabric of his underwear and begin to stroke the thickness of him, his entire body tenses, his hands fisting against the wall beside my head, and his lips faltering momentarily in their sensual destruction of mine.

I crave the feel of his hands on me.

It sounds so simple yet stupid, but Hunter knows how to touch a woman. My body remembers.

Because I’ve missed it.

His touch.

Him.

Touch me.

I stroke my hand up him and rub my thumb over the crest of his cock.

Want me.

The nails of my other hand score down his back through his shirt.

Take me.

The ding of the elevator shocks me to my senses, and the way that Hunter jolts back, has me looking toward the door in fear of being caught by a guest.

When I look back to him, he’s tucking himself back into his pants, and the smirk on his lips is almost as taunting as his words. “Now you’ll know how it feels. Now you know what it’s like to watch me walk away.” His chuckle is low.

“What?” I look up to meet his eyes, curious and darkened with desire neither of us can deny.

“Good night, Dekker. It was good to see you again.”

When he strides out of the elevator, I stare after him with shock etched in every muscle of my body.

That shock morphs to embarrassment. The embarrassment churns to anger. That anger fuels self-loathing.

The dig is real, and the sting from it hits harder than it should.

But I caused this. He kissed me, yet I overstepped every damn line there is.

You almost just gave him a blowjob in the elevator.

I didn’t, but my mind was there. The want was there. The goddamn urge was there.

I let the door close. I let the car ride to my floor. I let the doors open. All the while my mind reels, and my temper simmers from the utter mortification of what I just did.

Each step I take toward my room is emphasized by my thoughts.

How could I be so unprofessional?

Step.