Page 22 of Sexting the Boss
I shake my head. “You don’t get to say that. Not when you’ve probably only dated models who survive on air and almonds.”
“I’ve dated women who were beautiful,” he says, “but none of them had fire in their beauty. Until now, that is.”
My blush deepens and I look away, but his hand comes to rest lightly on my hip. His other hand slides along my jaw. I know I should step back, but I don’t.
“You think your body’s too much,” he murmurs, “but men don’t want small. Boys want easy. Men want something they can feel.”
I inhale sharply, and his mouth is closer now.
“You were made to be touched,” he says. “And I’ve been thinking about it since the first day you walked into my office.”
His mouth brushes mine once, then again, slower this time. I melt into it before I can pretend otherwise. His hand curls around my waist, pulling me flush against him, and the heat between us surges like it’s been waiting.
He deepens the kiss with a sound in his throat, and I open for him without thinking. My fingers clutch at his shirt, and his mouth moves over mine with a hunger that feels both new and long overdue.
His hand slides lower, gripping my hip harder now, and I gasp against his lips as he backs me toward the wall of glass. His mouth slants over mine again, firmer this time, and I lose whatever grip I had on control. He kisses like he means to take something, and maybe he already has, because I’m opening for him without question, without pause, without a single coherent thought in my head.
His tongue strokes mine slowly, and his hand curves tighter around my waist, drawing me in until there’s no space left between us. My breath catches in my throat, and my hands fist in his shirt like I need something to hold onto before I drown.
He shifts, backing me up against the cool glass wall, and the contrast between the cold surface and his heat makes me gasp. His thigh slides between mine, pressing high, and my hips rock against it on instinct. I don’t even mean to, but he groans against my mouth like he felt it everywhere.
I can’t think. I can barely breathe. All I know is the way his lips drag across my jaw, down to my neck, where his teeth scrape lightly before he sucks hard enough to leave a mark.
“You taste so sweet,” he murmurs into my skin, and the words curl deep in my gut. My fingers move on their own, tugging atthe buttons of his shirt, even though I know I shouldn’t. He catches my hands before I get far, pinning them gently against the glass.
“Not yet,” he says, voice rough and full of command. “Let me touch you first.”
He kisses me again, slower this time, teasing and thorough, and his hands move to my hips, sliding over the fabric of my dress like he’s memorizing every curve. He palms my ass firmly then trails one hand up to cup my breast through the fabric, and I arch into him without shame.
“You’ve been driving me insane for months,” he murmurs. “Walking into my office in skirts that don’t hide a damn thing, speaking with that sharp little mouth, pretending you didn’t know exactly what you were doing.”
“I wasn’t pretending,” I breathe, but it comes out as a whimper when his thumb brushes over my nipple.
His mouth curves into a smile against my neck. “Even better.”
He steps back, just long enough to grab my hand and lead me inside. I follow on shaking legs, still dizzy from how quickly I lost control. We pass through the living space, then the bedroom opens around us—dark wood floors, soft recessed lighting, a king-sized bed with deep navy sheets that probably cost more than my rent.
He stops near the edge of the bed and turns to face me. His eyes are darker now, focused and hungry, but he waits. “Say it,” he says. “Say you want this.”
My throat is dry, but my voice doesn’t shake. “I want this.”
“Good girl,” he says, and my knees nearly give out.
He steps in close again, and this time, his hands go to the top button of my dress. He undoes it slowly, his fingers brushing my collarbone as he leans in to kiss just below my ear.
“One button at a time,” he murmurs. “So you feel every second of this.”
My breath comes faster. He moves to the next button, then the next, pressing open-mouthed kisses down the path he reveals. By the time he reaches the last one, the dress is loose on my shoulders, and his hands slide beneath the fabric, pushing it down slowly until it pools at my feet.
I stand in front of him in my bra and panties, flushed and exposed, and he steps back for one long look. His eyes travel over every inch of me, reverent and unhurried.
“You have no idea what this does to me,” he says.
Then he reaches for the clasp of my bra, and his fingers work it open with practiced ease. The straps fall, and his hands come up to cup me bare, warm and firm, while his mouth claims mine again.
I’m already trembling when he lifts me by the hips and lays me back across his bed. The sheets are cool beneath me, but his body is hot as he follows me down, settling between my thighs with a growl in his throat.
“Touching you through a screen wasn’t enough,” he silkily murmurs against my breast. “I need more.”
