Page 146 of Vow to Claim You

“It’s our event.” He walks me backward until my hips hit the edge of his desk and mutters against my ear while his fingertips roam down my arm, sending pleasant chills through my body. “And I say we have time.”

“You’re impossible.”

“You love it.”

I do.

He pulls away, just enough to lock his gaze with mine, and dear God… his eyes are already black. The way he looks at me alone destroys any restraint I might’ve had.

He reaches behind me, slow, deliberate, and finds the zip at the small of my back. He does not pull it down immediately. He just holds it there, his eyes on mine, his other hand at the side of my neck, his thumb against my pulse.

“You wore this knowing what I would do.”

“Yes.”

He pulls the zipper down. Slowly. Inch by inch. The fabric parts under his fingers, sliding from my shoulders, from my breasts, from my waist. His eyes follow it down the entire length of my body until the dress pools at my feet, and I am standing in his office in nothing but a thong and my heels, and the heat of his gaze is hotter than his hands.

“You should not be allowed to exist.”

Aric’s chest rises slower and heavier as his eyes sweep down my body, and the way he runs his tongue over his bottom lip makes my knees buckle. He lifts me onto the desk like I weigh nothing. Papers scatter. A pen rolls off the edge and clatters to the floor. He steps between my legs and his hands are moving up my thighs, and I can’t think about anything except his mouth on mine.

He kisses me like he’s starving for it. Like he didn’t have me last night, and the night before, and every night since we stopped pretending this was just an arrangement. Like every kiss is the first one. Like he’ll never get enough.

My fingers find his hair. Grip. Pull. He groans against my lips—a low, rough sound that sends heat pooling between my thighs—and his hands slide higher, tearing the fabric of my thong apart, which makes a gasp escape me.

“Aric—”

“I know.” His voice is rough. Wrecked. “I know we don’t have time. I know you have a gala to host. I know—” He drops to his knees. “I don’t care.”

Oh.

Oh that’s⁠—

His mouth finds my inner thigh. Teeth scraping. Tongue soothing.

My head falls back, and I have to brace my hands on the desk to keep from collapsing.

His mouth moves higher, and I stop arguing. He’s not gentle. That’s something I’ve learned about Aric—something I’ve come to crave. When he wants something, he takes it. No hesitation. No half measures. Just focused, relentless intensity that leaves me gasping.

He licks me from entrance to clit in one long, devastating stroke, and my whole body jolts.

His tongue works against me like he has all the time in the world. Like there isn’t a ballroom waiting. Like there aren’t guests arriving. Like the only thing that matters is the taste of me on his lips and the sounds I’m trying desperately to muffle.

“Don’t.” His voice vibrates against my most sensitive flesh. “I want to hear you.”

“Someone could⁠—”

“Let them.”

His fingers join his mouth, pushing inside me, curling just right, and the moan that escapes me is loud enough to echo off the walls.

So much for discretion.

But I’m past caring. Past thinking. Past anything except the pressure building inside me, coiling tighter with every stroke of his tongue, every thrust of his fingers.

“Aric—” His name comes out like a prayer. “I’m⁠—”

“I know.”