Page 175 of Pregnant By A Rich Demon 3

“I won’t.”

“I mean it.”

“So do I.”

I looked at him for another moment, and then—I’m not entirely sure who moved first, which is maybe how it’s supposed to work when something is genuinely mutual—I was standing, and he was closer, and his hand had moved from my jaw to the back of my neck, and I kissed him. Not gently. Not tentatively. Like I’d been holding it in the whole drive over, and his office was the first place I’d felt safe enough to let it out.

He made a low sound against my mouth—surprised, or grateful, or both—and his other hand found my waist, gathering the fabric of my dress, not pulling, just holding.

“Truth,” he said, pulling back just enough to see my face.

“Don’t,” I said. “Don’t ask me if I’m sure.”

His mouth curved. “I wasn’t going to.”

“Good.” I reached past him and turned the laptop screen to face the wall.

He cleared the desk with the unhurried efficiency of someone who had thought about this, or something like this, more than once—laptop closed and pushed aside, the tray of sample stones moved carefully to the bookshelf, nothing dropped or rushed. Then he turned back to me and just looked, letting me set the pace, which I appreciated more than I was going to say out loud.

“Come here,” I said, and I held my hand out the same way he’d held his out in the parking lot.

He took it.

I pulled him forward until he was standing between my knees where I’d perched on the edge of the desk, and I took my time. I reached up and started on his shirt buttons, slow and deliberate, and he didn’t rush me. His jaw was tight, his breathing already ragged in that way he got when he was working hard to stay still—holding himself back, letting me have the wheel for once. I undid the third button and spread the shirt open across his chest, then just looked at him.

I imagined myself melting, just sliding onto the floor in a puddle of hormones and liquid lust.

“You’re going to make me wait,” he said.

“I’m going to take my time,” I corrected. “Those are different things.”

“Are they?”

“Mm-hmm.” I pressed both palms flat against his chest, felt the heat of him, felt his heartbeat moving faster than his face was willing to admit. “Your heart’s racing.”

“You’re doing that on purpose.”

“Little bit.”

He exhaled through his nose—a short sound that was a laugh and something more—and his hands settled on my thighs, thumbs drawing small circles against the inside of my knees through the fabric of my dress. Not moving higher. Asking.

“Take it off,” I said, meaning the shirt.

He shrugged it off his shoulders and let it drop onto the chair behind him without looking away from me. I took a moment to appreciate that—the deliberateness of it, the way he stood there and let himself be seen without making it a performance.

“Your turn,” he said.

I reached up and pulled the tie loose on my wrap dress. The fabric fell open, and I slid it off my shoulders, then set it on the desk beside me. He didn’t move. He looked at me the way he’d looked at the alexandrite bracelet in the case—like he was cataloging something he intended to come back to—and that expression did more damage than any touch could have.

“Stop looking at me like that,” I said.

“No.” He stepped forward and pressed his mouth to the curve of my shoulder, then dragged it slowly up the side of my neck, his hands finally moving from my thighs to my hips, thumbs hooking into the edge of my underwear. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want you to keep going,” I said. “And I want you to stop being so careful with me.”

He pulled back to look at my face. “I’m not being careful with you.”

“You’re performing patience.”