Wall Street Titan (Wall Street Titan #1) - Anna Zaires Page 0,43
old mattress, creating a dip in the soft surface that makes it hard for me to sit upright instead of leaning toward him. It’s like the illustrations of gravity, where a big celestial body creates an indentation in spacetime that prevents a smaller body from escaping its orbit.
That’s Marcus for me.
I can’t seem to escape his pull—nor am I sure I want to.
Our eyes meet, and the drilling noise intensifies, making any attempt at conversation impossible. Still, neither one of us looks away. With the men repairing the door, we have zero privacy, but the work might as well be happening miles away. All I’m aware of is him, his nearness and the growing heat in his gaze.
My hand is unsteady as I dip my spoon into the bowl and come up with some ice cream. Bringing it to my mouth, I close my lips around the creamy, salty-sweet coolness and let it slide down my throat as Marcus’s eyes darken, his hard features tightening as he reaches over me and sets his coffee cup down next to mine. I can feel his desire for me, sense its dangerous, potent draw, and my breathing quickens, my nipples pebbling inside the confines of my bra.
“Emma…” His voice is low and hoarse, somehow audible over the din. “I think… I want the ice cream, after all.”
My throat goes dry. “Do you want me to go get you some?”
Holding my gaze, he slowly shakes his head. “Give me some of yours.”
Oh God. There’s no way he’s just talking about the ice cream—not with that look in his eyes.
Still, I move to hand the bowl to him, but he stops me by laying a big hand on my knee.
“Feed it to me,” he orders huskily.
My whole body now feels like it’s on fire, tingles of electricity racing up my leg from where his palm is resting. The drilling noises stop, replaced by more hammering, but the construction noise is nothing compared to the roar of my pulse in my ears.
Feed it to him.
Right, okay.
My hand trembles as I scoop up a spoonful of ice cream and bring it to his mouth.
His hard, masculine, oh-so-skilled-at-kissing mouth.
His lips close around the spoon, cleaning off all the ice cream, and my breath catches in my throat as his tongue flicks out to lick off the creamy droplet left on the handle—less than half an inch from where my fingers are spasmodically gripping the spoon.
“Delicious,” he murmurs, his gaze burning me alive, and I belatedly remember that I have to breathe.
Audibly sucking in air, I yank the spoon back, nearly tipping over the ice cream bowl.
“Whoa, careful there…” His hand covers mine, steadying the bowl in my grasp, and the glimmer of dark amusement in his eyes tells me he knows exactly how he’s affecting me—and that he’s enjoying every bit of it.
Asshole.
I want to be mad at him, but I can’t work up sufficient outrage. I’ve never been this turned on. Ever. My underwear is soaking wet, and my sex is literally throbbing at the erotic movie playing in my mind. I can picture his skilled mouth closing over my nipple, then trailing burning kisses down my stomach before those warm, supple lips close around my clit and—
“Excuse me, Mr. Carelli? We’re done.”
Rodney’s voice is like a bucket of ice water in my face.
I’d completely forgotten the workers are here.
Mortified, I jump to my feet, clutching the bowl in front of me like it can hide the burning flush covering my cheeks. What the hell was I thinking? Another couple of minutes, and Marcus and I would’ve been horizontal, ice cream and our audience forgotten.
Juan’s thoughts must be in line with mine because he’s smirking as he stands next to Rodney.
Marcus doesn’t seem fazed. Walking over to the reattached door, he inspects the work, then nods brusquely. “Good job, thank you.”
“Yes, thank you,” I echo, fighting my embarrassment as the men gather their tools and leave with a friendly wave in my direction.
I’m relieved when the door closes behind them—that is, until it dawns on me that Marcus and I are now all alone in my apartment.
An apartment with a door that closes and locks.
22
Marcus
My heart is thrumming with dark anticipation as I lock the door and turn to face Emma, who’s standing by the bed and watching me with huge gray eyes, the ice cream melting in the bowl she’s still clutching with both hands.