Shaking my head, I try to push past him, but he wraps his arm around my waist, pulling my back to his chest. “Please don’t go.”
“What?” A part of me wants to snuggle against him—to feel the warmth of his body—while the other part is begging for space.
He walks us forward, pointing at the marked up newspaper I left on the table this afternoon. “Don’t go,” he says again.
“I have to. I’m done with this. One of us has to go.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” he says, tilting my chin with his finger so my eyes are level with his.
“Then I am. I can’t do this hot and cold bullshit. I moved here to make life less complicated, and you’ve turned it into a freaking Rubik’s cube.” I want to be angry. I need the strength to put distance between us, but I can’t. Not when his skin is against mine. He paralyzes my ability to be the strong woman I strive to be.
“I don’t want you to go.” His nose is pressed against my hair. He inhales, curling his fingers around my silk shirt.
“Blake.” As his name leaves my lips, the fabric moves up my stomach. When I feel his fingertips brush across my skin, the hair on the back of my neck stands up. It’s been too long since I’ve felt this way—needing to have someone else’s skin against mine. Blake might be the last person I should be doing this with, but he makes me aware of my own heartbeat, strong and thunderous.
Laying my head back against his shoulder, I allow him to explore my neck with his mouth. His calloused hand runs the length of my stomach, increasing my desire. I’ve never wanted in the way I want him. His touch is wiping all doubt from my mind.
I shouldn’t do this.
I can’t do this.
A guy like Blake will only distract me. He’ll grip me tight, and then when I think I’m safe—when I think my heart’s safe—he’ll let me go. I can’t afford to take that risk. I can’t afford to have my heart shattered again by a guy like him.
“I can’t,” I whisper, trying to loosen his grip on me. He doesn’t let up.
“You can,” he says, crossing his arms over my stomach. “Because I’m done fighting you. I’m done fighting this.” He turns me in his arms, holding my face in his hands. “I don’t want a relationship, but I want you. Be with me . . . just like this.”
I close my eyes. I don’t want a relationship, but I want you . . . what does that mean exactly? Is he making an exception? What if I don’t want to be his exception? The sensations he sent through my body just a couple minutes ago linger, making it hard to think.
“I don’t understand,” I finally say, my voice shaky.
His hands still cupping my face, he walks me back until I’m against the wall. His gaze is powerful, paralyzing me. No one’s ever looked at me like that. Not Derek, not anyone. “I want to fuck you so good that you’ll be begging me to fuck you again. Then tomorrow, I’ll do it all over so you don’t forget how good my cock feels buried inside of you.”
He slides his fingers down around the base of my neck, then down my arms, letting his thumbs brush against my breasts. “The way your body curves into mine, the way you shudder under my touch; I feel it, Lila. You want this. I know I want this.”
If I could orgasm from words alone, I’d be clenching around every single syllable that just fell from his lips. He grips my hips pulling me into him. So big. I’m like an alcoholic that’s been given a sip; there’s no going back.
Standing up on my tippy toes, I brush my lips against his, pulling his lower lip between my teeth. I savor him, not sure where this is going or what I’m doing exactly. When he pulls away from me, my heart shrinks.
“Before we do this, you have to agree to one thing.”
I nod nervously, anxious to just have his mouth on mine again.
“No feelings. No attachment. Just you and me, like this. Can you do that?”
Can I? I don’t want a relationship, but am I ready for this? He’d be a distraction—a welcome one . . . or maybe not. It’s a decision I’ll probably end up regretting either way.
My gaze travels between his eyes and lips. He has me so hot and full of want, or want to be full of him. I answer the only way I can, fisting his T-shirt while licking my lower lip. A sexy, half-smile highlights his mouth, then it’s on me, everywhere my skin has been exposed. He encircles me in his arms, tugging my skirt up from behind. Then he lifts me, forcing me to wrap my legs around his waist. If it weren’t for his jeans and my thong and panty hose, he’d be inside me. God, I want him inside me.
“Do you know how sexy you are? Dressed all professionally and shit,” he mutters against my neck. “I’ve always wanted my own little secretary.”
I moan, arching my body into him. “What are you going to do to me then, boss?”
“Fuck,” he groans. His thumbs flick over my nipples, and I realize I’ve never needed someone so badly.
Snaking my arms over his shoulders, I bury my face in the crook of his neck, breathing in his usual scent. I nibble and suck while he walks toward his room, his arms holding me tightly against his strong body.
I have seconds to change my mind. The sane part of me is screaming to put an end to this madness, but the mind is a small part of the body as a whole.
He rests one knee on the bed, allowing me to fall back. He kisses me. Deeply. Desperately. My world is spinning so fast; it’s going to fall right off its axis. He expertly undoes all my buttons, exposing my lace bra. A low growl escapes his lips, as he sucks my nipples through the thin material. I pull his hair between my fingers, feeling the need to drive him as insane as he’s driving me.
His tongue trails a path down my stomach, tracing a circle around my belly button, and then going down to the top of my skirt. He rests his chin on my abdomen, looking up at me, eyes hooded. “You have way too many damn clothes on.”
I’m thinking the same about him. Finding the zipper along the side of my skirt, he slides it down and makes easy work of discarding it. My hose and panties follow.
I watch as he stands and pulls his shirt over his head, his eyes never leaving my naked form on the bed. This is the first time I’ve let myself be exposed in front of someone I didn’t love—someone I’m not even sure if I like most of the time. I thought it would be strange, but the way he looks at me makes me feel wanted. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this sexy.
I wiggle on the bed, squeezing my legs together to keep my body occupied. There’s a growing hunger; the longer I watch him, the more I feel it.
I stare as he pulls his zipper down and pushes his jeans and boxers down over his throbbing cock. It’s impressive, I have to give him that.
“Open your legs for me,” he demands, walking over to his nightstand. I don’t comply. I can’t because I’m too busy watching him. He pulls out a condom and glances over at me, shaking his head.
“Legs, Lila,” he says again, a little louder this time. I comply as he makes his way back to the end of the bed, carefully rolling on the condom along the way. His body could be a sculpture; it’s well proportioned—lean and muscular. He sets one knee between my legs and runs his fingers against my opening. Arching my back, all I can do is look at him.
A grin spreads across his face as he wipes his soaked fingers against the inside of my thigh. “Who are you wet for, Lila?”
Unable to form real words, I attempt to reach for him, to pull him down to me, but he presses against my chest to keep me away. This is not normal—the amount of desire I have for him.
His fingers brush against the top of my thighs, so close to where I actually want him, but far enough away to deny me what I need. “Who, Lila . . . who did this to you?”