Her thigh hitched, hanging on my hip in an effort to get closer to me, to press against my length. Less than a minute was all it took for the heavy heat between us to turn frantic.
She broke the kiss, lips swollen and breath loud, to look up at me. “I should clean up,” she said like she hoped I’d object.
Which I did.
I kissed her again, too impatient to speak. It was a tasting, slow and light, tongues brushing, retreating, teasing and testing. All day, I had waited for this moment, to hold her in my arms, to feel that perilous click of rightness.
I should have run from Lila Parker at the first notice of that feeling. I should have let her go, having done my duty to distract her. But instead, I’d heedlessly indulged.
I hoped it wouldn’t be my undoing. And I wished I cared if it was.
Half a step, and her ass was propped on the desk. I broke away to press hurried kisses down her neck, lips closing, tongue sweeping to taste the sweet remnants of cake. The weight of her breast filled my palm as I licked a path to the hem of her bra, to the peak of her nipple, the silk like second skin. Her fingers tightened in my hair, a sigh of pleasure, the link of her thigh around my waist. A thunk as a heel hit the ground.
My fingers trailed all the way down her leg to grasp her heel in my palm. I lifted, spreading her legs wider, fitting myself between them with a promissory grind of my hips. She gasped at the contact, and up I kissed to take those lips again while my hands relieved her of her bra, then, with a shimmy of her hips, her panties.
“Off,” she breathed, tugging at my shirt.
Holding her still with my hips, I leaned back and shucked it, tossing it somewhere behind me.
When I looked down, the moment stretched, the details sharpening, collected in a breath that felt like an eternity. Lila stretched back on the desk, elbows propping her up. Her eyes were hot and hungry, scanning the breadth of my chest to my belt and back up, snagging my eyes and holding them. Her neck, white and long, her messy hair, bright as crimson. Her breasts heaving, the curve of her waist beckoning, the circle of her thighs around my waist, that sweet rippling of flesh that awaited my touch.
She was, undoubtedly and without question, the most beautiful woman I had ever laid eyes on, and not for the many ways I’d just cataloged. She was beautiful for the way she looked at me, with adoration and respect, with deference and worship. She was beautiful for the softness she only gave to me, for the slivered crack in her armor she’d shown me with trust.
She was beautiful because she was mine. In that moment, the woman who gave nothing gave herself to me.
To me.
And that gift would not be squandered.
Without thought or purpose beyond her body, I dropped to my knees and spread her thighs, tracing the flesh with eager fingertips. A ravenous desire swept through me, and I opened my mouth to appease it, dragging my tongue along the path my fingers had taken, drawing her in with a sweep of salt and sensuality. And with every drag of my tongue, she rose, thighs tight, hips bucking. But I gave her no reprieve. Instead I drove her on, eyes closed, my purpose singular. And I was rewarded in full. With a hard pull of my tongue and the shift of my chin, she came like thunder, a cry on her lips and a tremor of her body against mine.
The moment she eased, I broke the connection to stand and unfastened my belt.
She reached for me, bringing herself to sit with what looked like all her strength, and when I was free of my pants, I filled her arms, met her lips in a kiss of desperation and desire, her tongue sweeping my lips to taste herself there.
Her hand slid down my chest, around her thigh locked to my waist, to close around the length of me and guide me to her heat. The shock of sensation forced an instinctive flex. A second, and I filled her, not stopping until I could go no further.
Forehead to forehead, nose to nose, breath to breath, neither of us moved, not for a long moment stacked with thudding heartbeats. And then she kissed