Conflict of Interest - By Allyson Lindt Page 0,47

The blood rushed from his head to fill his lower extremities.

She glanced over her shoulder at him. “It’s hard to reach by myself, and it’s not nearly as comfortable as I’m sure it looks. Please?”

He swallowed hard and grabbed her zipper. His pulse screamed as he slid it down the length of her back, the two halves of her dress parting and exposing pale, smooth skin. It took all his restraint not to lean in and trail his lips down her spine. He realized his breathing was shallow. Why was his hammering heart choosing this moment to betray his reluctance to be hurt by her?

She dropped the dress, and it pooled around her feet. Still standing with her back to him, she raised her hands over her head. Every curve was elongated, accented by black lace panties and matching thigh-high stockings. She tugged his shirt over her head, and it dropped into place. Even though she was only a few inches shorter, she was enough thinner that it ended halfway down her thighs, right above her stockings.

She plucked the chopsticks from her hair and shook it loose as she spun to face him.

He struggled to keep his eyes on her face, failing as he traced her figure and the way his shirt hinted at everything that was and wasn’t underneath. That was so not any better.

She studied him for a moment and then stepped closer. “I can’t believe you didn’t yank this off hours ago.”

Her fingers worked their way under his tie, brushing his throat. He inhaled sharply.

She gave him a curious look while she loosened the bow. She worked her way down the front of his shirt, undoing each button as she moved, pulling it open when she reached the bottom. “Better?”

“No.” His voice barely reached his own ears.

Her bottom lip stuck out. “What’s wrong?”

He clenched his hands into fists, fighting back the urge to trace a finger over her pout, or press her against the wall and kiss her until he couldn’t breathe, and even then he might not stop. He took a deep breath and tried to compose himself enough to answer. “I’m good. I just need some sleep.”

Her frown deepened. “You’re not good.”

With her still standing in the doorway, he couldn’t get around her without touching her. He stepped back into his room, but putting the extra space between them didn’t help clear his thoughts. An ache throbbed below his waist. “You’re making it really hard to behave myself.”

She rested a hand on his chest, and then slid lower to his belt. “You’ve never complained before.”

He grabbed her wrist, her skin almost searing his hand. “You’re the one who keeps insisting we put some professional distance between us. If you keep this up, that won’t happen. The only thing I can think about right now is how amazing you look in my shirt, and how you’d look even better if I tore it off.”

“I—” She faltered, pulling away and biting her bottom lip. She tugged down the edge of the shirt, not looking at him. Her head shot up, and she brushed her lips over his.

Fuck professional boundaries. He twisted his fingers in her hair, tugging her head back and kissing her hard. She whimpered and pressed into him, body sliding against his. Every inch of him ached in response. He pushed until her back hit the door frame. His mouth worked down her neck, teeth nipping at the soft skin. God she tasted amazing. The soft flower of her perfume mingled with the faint salt of perspiration and made him lightheaded.

She pushed his shirt off his shoulders, and he let go of her long enough to let it drop. He rested one hand on the back of her neck, lips seeking hers out again, tongue dancing over hers. His other hand slid down her side, pushing the shirt out of the way until he met her bare waist. Her skin was soft against his palms.

Her nails raked over his undershirt, and he growled in response.

This was such a bad idea. He was hooked, and she would walk away in the morning, wearing her professional mask. He broke away abruptly.

She frowned, hurt reflected in her blue eyes.

But he would do anything to keep that look at bay, even if it destroyed him. Besides, there were worse ways to die a slow painful death than making love to the woman he was falling for. He grasped her wrists loosely in one hand and pushed her arms over