Page 16 of The Mobster’s Nurse

Not when he moves his other hand to my hip and not when he suddenly lifts me off my feet. I moan as my legs wrap automatically around him, the shivering lust in me simply bypassing all the complications of my heart.

"If I'd known a woman like you worked here," he moans, carrying me to the very back of the stables. He pushes me against the wall out of sight, near a stack of saddles. "I would've come down here more often."

His manhood is already huge and hard. I can feel it through his clothes, a solid pole of desire that makes my lips get hot and tingly.

"What do I need you for?" he snarls. "I need you for your lips. Your ass. Your moans. That cute, sassy flush in your cheeks. Your horny young body."

He lays me down on a bale of hay.

"These legs," he groans, gripping my thigh. Hard. Sliding his hand up toward my sex. "Open them."

Right now, I've got them wedged closed. Thighs pressed around his hand, the pressure making my clit throb like I'm going to melt before he even properly touches me.

"No," I moan.

“No,” he’s surprised. “Say that like you mean it.”

He's right, and I hate that he's right. The part of me that actually wants this, needs this, is currently arching upward and pressing harder into his hand — definitely not saying no.

I could stop this, I think clearly. I could put my hand on his chest and say the word once more, properly, more firmly, and he would stop. I know that about him already.

But I'm not going to.

He smirks. "Come on. Say no like you mean it."

He pushes his hand even higher between my tight-closed legs. The nearer he gets to my sex, the more intense it becomes. Everything. My body is a battleground, and I don't want to win.

"Look at your beautiful eyes," he snarls, as if to himself.

"What … about my eyes?" My words stall as I force them past a moan.

"You look drunk. High. Ready to burst for me."

He snarls as he pushes the rest of the way. I let my legs fall open.

I let them. That's the truth of it. Because I'm done pretending I'm not here by choice.

I can't fight it, not when I feel the heel of his palm grind through my pants, flattening my clit.

This is wrong. I'm at work. He's a dangerous man. I should stop.

But I don't want to.

"You feel wet even through your pants," he groans, moving his hand quicker. My clit throbs. "Look at you. Twitching your hips. Chasing the pleasure."

He's right. I can't help it. Don't want to even if I could, or ought to.

He leans even further down. Pushes his lips against mine. I move eagerly toward him, seeking the warmth, the fire of his mouth. He snarls through the press of our lips, unbuttoning my pants at the same time.

He slips his hand into my underwear, lower. Smooths his fingers over my nub and my lips and snakes them down further to my entrance.

"Oh. My. Fucking. God."

He leans back so he can properly look at me. There's wonder and appreciation in his eyes. Like I'm some miracle he can't believe he gets to touch. "You're fucking soaked," he says, his voice surprised. "You're drenched, Ellie. Just for me. I need to … fuck, I need to taste this slick, horny pussy."

I should tell him no. Tell him to stop. Maybe even tell him the truth about how there are limits to what I can offer him, on how far I can go.

But do I want to stop?