With my dating history—my real life, not the fantasy I exuded every time I met a client—I’d kissed and had been kissed more times than I cared to admit, and I thought I’d felt every emotion that came with the act.
I was wrong.
Not only was the frustration still echoing through me, but the aching pull of longing dragged through my body, pooling between my thighs, and I couldn’t breathe—couldn’t think—as he held me to him.
“I didn’t plan on bringing you up here. But when I saw you—” Pausing, he let out a laugh that was just a touch remorseful. “—nobody else in that room existed.”
My lips parted to speak, but his hand on my nape moved around and covered my mouth. “Don’t talk, Lizzie. Don’t argue. Just let me hold you.”
There were so many things I wanted to say to him, to ask him, but instead, I pulled in a deep breath and kept quiet. Our gazes stayed locked as we moved in rhythm to the sexy lyrics. Finally, the song faded away, and I dropped my hands from his jacket again. Backing away from him, I fisted handfuls of chiffon fabric.
It was the only way I wouldn’t try to touch him.
“When will you be back?” I asked, tuning out the fact that Margaret was being introduced to a round of applause downstairs.
“Next Friday night.” He closed the space between us again, hovering one of his hands over the side of my face, like he was fighting the urge to feel me too. “And that’s when I’m having you for dinner.”
“Dinner or sex?” I heard myself question.
The most delicious smile stretched his face, making it impossible not to stare at his mouth. I shouldn’t want to taste him this badly. “Apparently you weren’t listening, beautiful. I said I was having you for dinner.”
An image of him naked raced through my thoughts, and I squeezed my thighs together. “When do you need an answer by?” I asked, barely managing to keep my voice cool and unaffected.
He walked past me toward the door, pausing just a moment to inhale my scent. My pulse sped up. “I didn’t ask you a question.”
I spun around to face him with my arms crossed over my chest. “What?”
“Because of the current state of your panties. Because, when I was holding you a few minutes ago, you whispered more.” He unlocked the door, and my disappointment reached a zenith. He was really leaving. “You’ve already given me your answer, Lizzie, and by this time next week, you’ll be too busy coming to ask for more.”
I hadn’t realized I said anything while we were dancing, and a flush tingled up my neck and face. “Is that a challenge?”
“That’s a promise.” Yanking me to him, he spun me around so that I was right where we started—with my back slammed up against the wall. His strong fingers pulled my dress up, until the blue chiffon was bunched around my hips, and he held it in place with one hand. “This—” He smiled wickedly, and my sex throbbed with anticipation. “This is a challenge.”
He skimmed his finger beneath my seamless Victoria’s Secret panties, pushing them aside. Giving me a meaningful look, he touched me, circling his knuckle around the slickness he found between my thighs.
“This,” he murmured appreciatively, flicking my clit, “This is a beautiful thing.”
I gasped, bucking my hips against his hand. “I have to go back to the party.” Despite the blood rushing to my ears, I could vaguely hear Margaret’s speech taking place downstairs. “You know that, don’t you?”
“I know.” But he squeezed my center between his knuckles, sliding his fingers back and forth until I was grasping at him wildly, pulling wherever my hands made contact. One of the buttons on his shirt popped off, landing on the floor between our feet. “Trust me, I hate to leave you.”
“Then you shouldn’t be doing this,” I moaned, feeling the pressure building already. It was too fast. Too soon. Forcing myself to resume some self-control, I put my hand between our bodies, grabbing his hardness roughly through his dress pants. He sucked in a breath between his teeth. “Tell me the truth; is this a challenge for me or you?” I rasped as he continued to stroke my pussy.
Ignoring my question, he teased me until I was at the point of breaking, and as soon as I did, he drowned out my sob of pleasure with his mouth. His tongue spread my lips apart, hot and demanding, as the orgasm rocked my body.
I was still trembling, still such a whimpering mess when our mouths parted that I wouldn’t have heard his answer had he not pressed his lips right to my ear. “It’s a challenge for us both, beautiful. While I’m gone, all you’ll think about is how that would’ve felt if it had been my cock instead.”
I felt my panties shimmying down my legs, and I swallowed hard as I realized he planned to take them with him. Wearing a satisfied smirk, he let the skirt of my dress fall into place as he stuffed my underwear into his pocket.
“And I’ll think of nothing but this.” He brought his wet knuckles to his lips and traced his tongue over them, skimmed his teeth over his own skin. My sex quaked as I pictured myself shoving his face between my thighs, his mouth taking the place of his fingers.
“This is a cruel challenge,” I whispered, but he bent his head and touched his lips to mine.
“That’s the point. Goodnight, Lizzie,” he drawled against my mouth. Then, before I could stop him, he was gone.
*
I stumbled into my apartment a few minutes after midnight, hot and bothered and without panties, thanks to Oliver and his expert hands. All the lights were off, including the guest bedroom that Pen was crashing in, and I was glad my best friend wasn’t around to witness my slow burn tonight. She would immediately guess that Oliver was behind my frustration, and I probably wouldn’t hear the end of it.
Yawning, I wiggled out of my costume and draped it over the chair beside my bed. I stared at the chiffon creation longer than necessary, Oliver’s words from earlier that evening churning in my brain—“Whether it’s your Khaleesi getup on my floor or one of those delicious little dresses you prance around Emerson & Taylor in, you and I will fuck.”
He’d said that to me wearing a confident little grin, even though he had no plans whatsoever for us to spend tonight together. And that infuriated me. As selfish as it was to admit, other than uncovering the details surrounding my father’s death and figuring out who’d called me five months ago, spending the entirety of my twenty-fourth birthday in Oliver Manning’s bed was one of the few wishes I had this year.
And now he was gone for the next week.
“Screw you, Oliver,” I muttered, stalking into the small, private bathroom on the far side of my bedroom. Twisting on the faucet in the stand-up shower, I stood beneath the hot water and watched the steam make the bathroom foggy. I showered slowly, tracing my fingers carefully over the parts of my body that he had touched.
Closed my eyes and pictured it was his hands all over me instead of my own.
Eventually, when the water ran cold, I wrapped myself in a towel and padded into my bedroom. Dressing quickly, I slid between the cool sheets. And I finally accepted the fact that I was sleeping alone tonight.
*
The bouncing sensation that came from someone jumping on my mattress shook me awake the next morning. Shooting straight up in bed, my gaze landed on boobs and then a mane of brown hair whipping into my face and hers when Pen slammed down on the pillow next to me.
“You scared the hell out of me!” I held my hand firmly against my throbbing chest. “Nothing’s wrong, is there?”
She batted her eyelashes. “Happy birthday, Gemma Emerson.”
It was sad—I’d heard the name Lizzie so much lately, being called by my real name was a bit of a shock to my system, but I quickly recovered. “Thanks.” I rubbed my hand over my face. “What time is it?”