Page 9 of One Time Only (One Time Only 1)
He scoffs, takes a long breath, then moves in closer once again. When he’s inches from me, his eyes roam over my body, possessive and hot.
They give away everything. They answer all my lingering questions.
Every last one.
Then he answers them some more as he pushes his body against mine, the full length of his arousal against my hip making me shudder.
Making me moan.
He dips his face, his mouth near my neck, so close he could brush those lips over me. He lets out a lusty breath then speaks, his words low and dirty as he gives me a filthy confession. “Your head isn’t where I’d most like to be, Stone.”
He turns away, walks down the hall, and moves toward the elevator, leaving my bones humming, my dick throbbing, and my desires cracked wide open.4StoneFor a few uncertain seconds, I don’t move.
I’m processing the world anew. Down is up, off is on, and the sun sets in the morning and rises in the evening.
As I reorient myself to this new world order, to this monumental shift, my eyes drift down the hallway to the sight of the man walking away.
The man who’s been in my employ for the last four months.
The man who’s been by my side through so many shows, through so many meetings, on so many flights, on so many nights.
The man I know—the man I evidently barely know.
And I can’t stop looking at him.
I’m gazing at Jackson in a whole new way. Freely.
Shamelessly.
Without an ounce of guilt.
I look at him with abandon, his broad frame, his big shoulders, those muscular thighs.
The way he fits in his clothes. Those lucky fucking clothes.
And his firm, tight, perfect ass.
My mouth waters.
My dick thumps.
My chest tingles.
And holy hell.
Everything I’ve resisted unlocks.
I’m an indulger. It’s just what I do. Permission granted.
I can either go inside my suite and spend the rest of the night in my head, fantasizing . . .
Or I can follow him.
There is only one choice.
I pick up the pace, racewalking down the hallway, reaching him at the elevator right before he hits the button, and setting a hand on his arm.
Jackson turns around. His eyes are blazing. His jaw is tight.
“You are so fucking sexy,” I whisper. It feels fantastic to say it, to speak this immutable truth.
He glances away, lets out a shuddery breath, then turns back to me. It’s as if he’s fighting against words, fighting to keep everything inside.
I don’t have that problem.
Yes, I know I shouldn’t be here.
With my employee.
With the guy who protects me better than anyone ever has.
But just like when whiskey kicks in, when the music thrums low and strong, I’m warm and hazy.
Liquid gold flows through me, and I’m turned all the way on, everywhere. Every damn molecule is tingling.
This man is . . . perfection. His soulful hazel eyes are edged with angst and desire, the twin combination potent and alluring.
His lips part the slightest bit. His breath seems to ghost across them, and he doesn’t move. He stares at me like an animal hunting for prey. Spotting it. Finding it.
I don’t move either.
We stand in the hall by the elevator.
And I want.
So, I take.
I close the distance, grabbing Jackson’s face, holding his chiseled jaw, and I crush my mouth to his. I taste his lips and inhale his scent. Like cedar and falling snow, like night and hushed moments in front of a crackling fire.
My head is a symphony of lust and sensation, light and noise, as I devour his mouth, savoring every second of a moment I’ve barely allowed myself to dream about. All that checked lust, all that restraint lets loose as I kiss him hard.
He kisses me just as fiercely, like he meant everything he said and a whole lot more.
But in a heartbeat, in a sliver of a second, I’m no longer leading the kiss. He breaks the contact and pushes me up against the wall, facing him, his hands on either side of my shoulders.
He doesn’t even touch me, but I’m locked in by those arms of steel.
His stare is dark, filthy.
It’s something else too. Something I’ve never seen before from a man or a woman. Something that sends sparks across my skin, that makes me sizzle.
Something . . .
Dominating.
At six foot one, I’m not a short man. I work out like a fiend at the gym. My arms are toned, my legs are strong, my stomach is flat. But he’s taller and he’s bigger—that’s the point. He’d better be bigger.
When he stares at me like a predator, that advantage lights me on fire.
“Let’s make one thing crystal clear,” he rasps out.
My throat is dry. “Tell me.”
With his arms on either side of my face and his lips inches from mine, he says, “I’m a top. And I’m a top in every way. Including this.”
