Hot Boss - Anne Marsh Page 0,51

over the waistband of her leggings, asking permission to take things further.

“Absolutely.” Hazel nods enthusiastically, shimmying in her seat. The throw slips and she catches it, her eyes laughing at me over the edge.

I slip my hand into Hazel’s leggings. There’s a moment of happy confirmation—she’s not wearing panties—and then the scent and feel of Hazel becomes my entire world. She’s slick and swollen, so wet that my fingers glide over her easily. She groans encouragement as I skim my fingertips down. The angle is awkward, my wrist bent in an uncomfortable bow. The dark, the blanket, the near pain in my wrist—it reminds me of high school and I tell her so.

She laughs. “Who was your first? Cheerleader? Best friend’s older sister? Math teacher?”

I’m not sure why she wants to have a conversation now, but I want to make her happy, so I take a shot at forming a coherent sentence. “You have a dirty mind.”

And it’s fabulous.

Hazel makes that snort-laugh—mission accomplished on the happiness front—but then her breath catches. Oh, good. I’ve distracted her. “Yes, like that.”

I skim her folds more lightly before sinking a little deeper. She’s so wet and soft there. All the stupid comparisons come to mind—she feels like silk, a flower, rose petals. They’re not enough. Even if she didn’t blow my mind so completely, I’d never find enough words to describe Hazel. Somehow, she’s simply more.

She presses harder against my hand and I find a faster rhythm with my fingers—teasing, circling, gliding my fingers around her clit. I can feel the little tremors starting in her sensitive flesh.

“I don’t want to come yet,” she groans.

“I could do this all night,” I whisper roughly against her hair. “But there’re two problems with that plan. First problem? Vegas is only a short flight.”

I move faster until I’m getting her off with my fingers and she’s chanting my name, her hands locked on my wrist as if I’d let go of her now. When she comes, it’s fast and hard, and I savor each sweet pulse. I love making her lose control; I love catching her when she lets go and fall-flies over the edge.

We sort of collapse together in the sudden silence blanketing the cabin. Eventually, I trail my mouth over her cheek to her ear. “You’re amazing.”

She mutters something, but it’s incomprehensible. I reach over and do up her seat belt before I pull her up against my side. The pilot announces that we’re landing, and the Vegas lights rush up to greet us outside the windows.

We’re on the tarmac at McCarran International Airport before she says, “You never shared the second problem with the class.”

I smirk against her hair. “You’re loud. No way we do it all night and the pilots don’t hear you.”

She folds up her blanket. “I’m just incentivizing you. Or giving you positive feedback on your performance.”

“My boss is the best,” I say mock-solemnly.

As we taxi toward the private jet terminal, she sits up and grabs her purse. I watch as she puts herself back together, brushing her hair, applying a red slick of lipstick to her mouth. This is Business Hazel—calm, in control, certain of herself.

She winks at me as the pilots bring us to a smooth halt. “I have the best plans.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

THERE’S A DRIVER and car waiting for us when we get off the plane in Las Vegas. Hazel hums something under her breath that sounds suspiciously like a Christmas carol even though the holiday is months away still. I realize my palm is curled protectively around her elbow just in case she trips or there’s a zombie attack, and I drop my hand. “Sorry.”

“Let’s try a compromise,” Hazel suggests.

I slant a glance down at her as we start toward the terminal. Neither Hazel nor I compromise well. One or both of us always insists on being in charge.

On being right.

“Hit me,” I say lightly, nudging her with my shoulder when she veers in the wrong direction. When I bring my fingers to my nose, I can smell Hazel. She wanted to show me some love but we ran out of time, so now I have an IOU that she scribbled on a twenty-dollar bill because neither of us had any paper.

“You’re a dirty boy, Mr. Reed.” Hazel leans into me, her arm brushing mine, and just that simple touch sets me on fire. “But let’s start with something that can be done in public.”

She reaches for my hand, her fingers tangling with mine, her thumb tracing