Stop attempting to piss him off?
Who the hell did he think he was?
Glaring up at him, standing stiffly beside him as they stepped into the elevator, Gypsy was all too aware of the fact that no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t really fight him.
She could have escaped him a dozen times during that damned ride. She knew exactly how to deactivate the door locks on those stupid Dragoons. Yet she had been unable to make herself do so.
Instead, she had sat silently, refusing to respond to his attempts to talk to her, to ease the anger still simmering inside her. To soothe the aching hurt that still lanced at her heart.
It wasn’t just anger or hurt, though.
She ached for him.
Especially since that kiss had fired every freaking neural receptor in her system.
She ached for him with a power that shocked her and infuriated her. Because she should hate him.
She should hate what he was doing to her. What her body was doing to her and her complete inability to make it stop or to control it.
The arousal, her hunger for his touch, his possession, had her stifling a scream of outrage.
Because it wasn’t fair.
Her jeans had to be damp. She knew her panties were soaked. Her ni**les were so damned hard that each rasp of her bra against them only primed her higher for his touch.
Hell, his touch was all she could think about.
His touch.
His kiss.
His lips on her ni**les, between her thighs.
Her thighs clenched at the thought. Her fantasies hadn’t come close to the pleasure he had given her, even before he’d jumped from her as though she sickened him.
The pleasure had been incredible. It had whipped through her, searing her body with increasingly powerful sensations until that edge of release she’d touched had been a second of pure nirvana. A pleasure unlike anything she’d imagined in her life.
And she had a damned good imagination.
The elevator doors slid open on the floor where his suite was located. Tightening his grip on her upper arm once again, he all but dragged her to the doors, where he pressed his thumb to the biometric lock—a new installation, she noticed suspiciously—opened the doors, then pulled her inside.
God, had he somehow figured out she was in his suite—
That thought was abruptly cut off.
Before Gypsy could do more than draw a breath, he’d pushed her against the door, his lips covering hers as his hands curved around the back of her thighs and lifted her. Dragging her legs around his hips, he used his body to hold her against the door as he ground the hard wedge of his c**k against the sensitive mound of her pu**y.
The whimper that left her lips was embarrassing.
Hungry, desperate need. Like a friggin’ cat in heat was what she sounded like.
Her hands slid into his hair, her lips parting beneath his as she accepted the hard thrust of his tongue against her own before the subtle taste of spicy sweetness had her attempting to lick at the invader demandingly, her lips closing on it to catch as much of it as possible.
Each taste seemed to push her higher. As though the teasing heat of his kiss were enough to stroke her senses to a fever pitch of arousal.
Her knees gripped his hard hips, another moan escaping her throat as the heated strength of the heavy shaft ground against her. The firm pressure stroked denim and silk over the swollen bud of her clit as her hips tilted to get closer to the caress.
Oh God, this was what she needed.