Page 47 of Deep (Chicago Underground 8)
I couldn’t stop, though. The grief had taken over my body, turned me into a vessel for tears, twisting me into a knot. I held my forearms up to my face as if they could protect me. He pulled me in closer, until I felt completely surrounded by him, his body both a cage and a shield.
The tears slowly subsided. I fell against him, limp and exhausted in the cradle of his large body.
I became aware of the hard length beneath my thigh. My body stiffened.
“Ignore it,” he said roughly.
I couldn’t ignore it. I didn’t want to. He desired me; that much was clear. No matter what he’d said in the office that day, no matter that it was true, I thought he’d always desired me.
There was more than desire. Obsession?
Love?
I didn’t know, and I wasn’t sure he did either. All I knew was that I wanted this, wanted a connection with another human being, wanted someone who cared enough to watch me, to hold me down—if that meant I was still a broken little girl, then so be it.
I moved my hips. They rocked against his erection. His breath caught.
“Kitten.” There was a warning in his voice. “You’re upset.”
I ignored it, shifting to face him. This close, he seemed fierce, handsome features etched out of stone, and more vulnerable. And I wanted him, so much. I needed him, this tender beast of a man.
“Please,” I whispered.
“This isn’t the right time.” I could hear his restraint in the gravel of his voice. I could feel it in the vibration of his body, fighting back his impulse, his desire to protect me.
It felt like a confessional, the back of the SUV in the dark of night, smooth highway pavement rushing beneath us. “There is no right time for us.”
“I can’t stop wanting you.”
“Then don’t,” I whispered. “Don’t stop.”
His hand cupped my neck, and then his mouth was against mine, kissing me as if he was starving for me. As if he’d been starving for years. He groaned at the taste of me, the sound almost disbelieving. Then he cupped my face with both hands, holding me still while his mouth assaulted me—biting and licking, invading me. I couldn’t kiss him back. I couldn’t even breathe. I could only submit to him, open to him, every slide of his tongue against mine driving my need higher.
His hand moved to my waist, brushing the hem of my T-shirt. He slid it up, exposing my breasts to the air. My nipples were hard points against his palms.
He groaned. “Christ.”
I was glad for the darkness, so that he couldn’t see how small they were. I had always hated the size of them, hated the strange mixture of lust and derision that men had when they saw them. At the same time I loved the way his hands felt covering me—so large and rough against the small swell.
“So fucking pretty,” he muttered.
My breath left me in an unsteady rush. “I thought you might not…”
He slowed his movements. His thumb circled my nipple. “What? That I wouldn’t want you? That I wouldn’t picture you every time I jack myself off?”
A low moan escaped me. “God.”
He pressed his face into my hair and breathed deep. “Don’t ever doubt that I want you. No matter what happens.”
Even though we wouldn’t be together, he meant. I made a sound of protest, but he shushed me with another kiss that stole my breath away. My thoughts too. He touched me until reality faded away—until I was only nerves and sensation, and he was every texture, every sound, every salt-sharp scent.
“Not like this,” he said.
I fought to keep my body pinned over his, my mouth pressed to his. I wanted oblivion and sex. I wanted every wrong thing he knew how to do to me.
He was stronger than me, easily overpowering me and flipping places. Now I was on the seat, and he was kneeling on the floor of the vehicle. He made quick work of my jeans and my T-shirt. Then I was naked, bare skin against cool leather—and he was still dressed. How did we always end up this way?
I tugged at his suit jacket. He let it slide off his shoulders, but he still had a dress shirt and slacks in the way. I fumbled at his belt, unseeing.
