Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 91058 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91058 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
“It’s not supposed to be this hard…”
His voice is nothing but anguish. His gaze drifts over my lips, staring for a prolonged, agonizing second before he leans in and steals a kiss.
I gasp.
He inches even closer, his hips bumping into mine.
Where is the line? It’s a good question. Is it here, with our mouths yearning for each other? Or here, as he parts my lips and takes our kiss further?
Our location isn’t lost on me. I’m not so far gone that I don’t consider all the acute dangers lurking around us. This is completely inappropriate and dangerous yet I moan and draw closer to him. I yank the lapels of his jacket and arch up onto my toes and kiss him back with a ferocity I don’t recognize. I want like I’ve never wanted. I need him, and the idea of not having him, of putting a stop to this now feels earth-shattering.
It’s the fastest string of wrong choices I’ve ever made in my life. One bad decision tips us into another. I have his jacket pushed off his shoulders like it should have never been there in the first place. His hands yank my shirt out of my skirt (the skirt) and then the buttons go, one, two, three, four. The material gapes and his hands slide inside to cover my breasts. Thin silk tingles against my sensitive skin. He slides his hand past the material, covering me with his warm palm. I bite his bottom lip, kiss him again, harder this time. Our tongues touch then tangle, and then I feel everything, all at once. It’s a sweet kiss of death. I might not make it past this moment. My chest might expand past the point of no return, but it’ll be worth it.
I don’t register that he’s walked us back to his desk until he has me propped up on top of it, right on the papers, knocking over a container of pens, shifting his computer screen a few inches to the right so that it bobs and almost tips over.
I laugh, but Hudson doesn’t. Can’t. He looks down at me with an expression that’s hard to discern at first. It’s so close to anger, but then I see it for what it is: fear. His brown eyes swim with it.
He leans down and kisses me again, almost like he wants to hide it from me, wants to erase the feeling behind our wild actions. We’re so desperate for here and now, but I know there’s nothing beyond it. I know he’ll leave me after, just like he did last time, and even knowing that doesn’t draw me up to the surface. I let him spread my legs. I let him trace his hand up my inner thighs. I make it easy for him to tug my panties to the side and sink his fingers into me and that first orgasm comes so quickly it’s like it’s been building since our conversation on the phone.
I sink my teeth into the base of his neck, that secret patch of skin his collar will hide once this is all said and done, but I’ll know I’ve marked him. I know later, he’ll press his fingers there and remember what it felt like when he unbuckled his pants and thrust into me with wild impatience. His aggressiveness is almost scary, almost too much. The way he kisses me to muffle my cry, his begging for me to wrap my legs around his hips. He needs to take me like this, thrusting harder and harder, coaxing until I come again, tightening around him, digging my fingers into his hair, making it painful because there’s no other way to curb the intensity, no other way to channel it other than to make him hurt like I hurt.
He breathes my name against my neck and we’re panting together, barely human.
He can’t finish like this, not without a condom, and though there’s no discussion, no request from him, I slide down off the edge of his desk and take him in my mouth and finish him on my knees. While it’s happening, it feels like I’m on top of the world, untouchable. I stare up at him with all the adoration of a devout worshipper. He doesn’t understand what I’ve already come to realize.
There is no fighting this.
I’m careful when it’s over. I stay on my knees, breathing through the rising tide of emotion. I stand up and I hear myself telling him, “That was some fantasy,” in a voice filled with light and laughter.
He’d never know I’m on the cusp of crying, never suspect his tender touch on the top of my elbow, his way of helping me up off the ground to ensure I’m all right and cared for—it’s too much. We have to cleave it here, immediately after the fact. Continuing to touch will lead to something like hope, and I’d like to avoid that at all costs.