Page 126 of Nowhere to Hide
“I know.” I pull him by the wrist toward Sterling. “We’re going to mine.”
He doesn’t argue.
When we get there, Sterling’s lobby is dead, everyone still at the gala or at Murphy’s. We take the stairs, and as we do, I reach behind me under my coat, unhook my bra through my dress, and work it out through my sleeve the way every girl learns to do by fourteen.
I loop it over the outside doorknob, unlock the door, and pull him inside.
Rowan laughs. “Was that?—”
“Ivy signal.”
“She’s going tolovethat.”
The room is small and still smells like the vanilla candle Ivy had burning that morning. My bed is made, while Ivy’s is chaoscamouflaged by a pile of clothing. I take my heels off and lose three inches, and Rowan laughs, looking down at me.
“If you comment on my height I’m stabbing you with my heels,” I say.
The corner of his mouth ticks up, all faux innocence. “I wasn’t going to.”
“You are with your face.” I jab him with the shoe. “Take your jacket off.”
He does, draping it over my desk chair, then unbuttons his cuffs while I stand there watching him like I’ve never seen a man undress before. Which, okay — I’ve seen him shirtless plenty of times, but tonight he’s dressed up, his forearms flexing, and my mouth goes dry.
“You’re staring,” he says.
“I’m appreciating. Take the shirt off and I’ll appreciate more.”
He unbuttons it the rest of the way and shrugs it off, and I get the full view — broad shoulders, the hard cut of his chest, the line of muscle that tracks down his stomach and disappears into his belt.
I reach behind me for my zipper, and it catches. I twist, tugging, and Rowan steps in close, fingers replacing mine, working the zipper down while his mouth finds the side of my neck. The dress loosens and pools around my feet, and I’m standing in nothing but panties.
His hands settle on my waist, and he presses into me from behind. He’s already rock hard, and his hands move down over my breasts, my stomach, then lower, teasing my inner thighs as both his breathing and mine get heavier.
I turn and undo his belt, the buckle clinking as I pull the leather through the loops and toss it behind me. Then I help him out of his pants and see his boxer briefs are dark and tight, the thick outline of his cock straining against the fabric.
I press my palm flat against him and he twitches.
He exhales sharply, his hand coming up to the back of my neck, but whatever he has in mind fails because I push him onto the bed. He takes my lead, and I climb onto him, settling, his hands finding my thighs while I lean down and kiss him, deep and slow and thorough.
It’s the kind of kiss that makes me grind down against him without deciding to, and as his tongue slides against mine, I can feel him hard against me through two thin layers of fabric, right where I want him, and I make a sound into his mouth that I don’t try to quiet.
He pulls back just enough to look at me. “How do you want?—”
“However you want.”
His eyebrows lift. “I thought you didn’t want me to?—”
“I said I don’t want you to decide for me. I’m choosing to let you.”
He looks at me for a second, hunger in his eyes, then he nods. “Okay.”
He kisses me harder, deeper, his hand sliding down my body, hooking my panties and pulling them down my legs. I kick them off, and then I’m pulling at his briefs, and when his cock springs free I wrap my hand around him and stroke, slow.
As I work him, his forehead drops to my shoulder, and he swears quietly against my skin. But even with my permission to take me however he likes, he’s still careful with me, gentling, holding himself in check like I might change my mind — and tonight, I don’t want careful.
“I want to feel you,” I say. “Stop being polite about it.”
His mouth drags up my neck. “Say that again.”
