Page 42 of Sexting the Boss
“Liar.”
Her eyes glaze. She’s gone under again. I could take her right here. Part of me wants to. Another part wants to wait until I have her naked, restrained, and spread out exactly how I like.
But right now, I just want to feel her.
I pull her dress up to her waist and shove my hand between her thighs. She’s soaked. Her hips grind against my palm before she even realizes she’s moving.
“I could ruin you in this elevator.”
“You already are.”
“Say thank you.”
She doesn’t hesitate. “Thank you, Sir.”
I groan, low and rough, because that word in her voice does something to me I didn’t expect.
Not just lust. Hunger.
Need.
Possession.
I slam the emergency stop button.
She startles. “Wait?—”
I silence her with my mouth, my hand never leaving her pussy, fingers slipping through her wet heat as I tease her back to the edge.
When she starts to clench, I stop and she whines.
I smile, because she’s trying to be brave about it and failing in a way that makes my chest tighten.
“Edge number one,” I say, calm and amused, and I watch her eyes widen as the words land. “Keep track.”
I press the button again just as the elevator jerks back into motion, and the timing matters more than the pressure, because her breath catches and her body answers before her mind can catch up. By the time we reach the top floor, she’s flushed and unsteady, her lips red from my mouth and her thighs trembling from being held right where she needs release most.
I straighten her dress slowly, smoothing the fabric down as if nothing happened, then I brush her hair back from her face and lower my voice.
“Don’t say a word,” I tell her, steady and certain. “Not until I say you can.”
The doors slide open. I take her hand and she follows me without speaking, cheeks warm and body wired tight enough that I can feel it in the way her fingers curl into mine. She isn’t resisting this, and she isn’t pretending she wants to. She’s choosing it, step by step.
The door closes behind us once we’re inside, and I don’t bother locking it, because I don’t need to. She hasn’t tried to pull away once.
I back her against the kitchen island, and the cool marble meets her palms as I lift her up with ease, her dress riding up without a fight. She gasps when I spread her knees, the sound sharp and honest, and I pause just long enough to meet her eyes.
“Still with me?” I watch for hesitation instead of demanding it.
“Yes,” she answers immediately, too fast and far too eager to be anything but real.
Good.
I set the bag from the restaurant on the counter and pull out a box of leftovers from the restaurant. I open it and take out a piece of chocolate cake.
Her eyes flick to it. “Ethan?—”
“Quiet.”
