Page 39 of Broken Roads (Hard to Handle #1)

Hailey

T he marketing photos spread across my desk like a treasure map, each image a piece of the puzzle I'm trying to solve.

I pick up another printout—a family on horseback against the backdrop of Walker Ranch's mountains—and pin it to the wall.

My fingers linger on the glossy paper as I step back to assess the display, mentally arranging and rearranging the campaign in my head.

This is good work. Work I can be proud of.

But if I'm being honest, my concentration has been shot to hell since Bradley's hands found their way under my sleep shorts.

I've spent the morning alternating between productive bursts and mind-wandering moments where I can almost feel his fingers inside me again. The memory makes me shift in place, pressing my thighs together against the persistent ache that's been building all day.

Just then the door to my office swings open with enough force that the handle bounces off the wall.

I spin around, startled by the sudden intrusion, to find Bradley filling the doorframe.

His hair is windblown, his cheeks flushed like he's been running or riding hard.

But it's his eyes that stop me cold—dark, intense, and fixed on me with a hunger that makes my mouth go dry.

"Bradley," I start, but the rest of my sentence evaporates as he steps inside and slams the door shut behind him.

Without breaking eye contact, he grabs the wooden chair from the corner and wedges it firmly under the doorknob.

"What are you—" I try again, but he's already moving to the window. His movements are swift and purposeful as he draws the curtains closed, blocking out the afternoon sun.

My pulse thunders in my ears, blood rushing so fast I feel light-headed. I'm rooted to the spot, unable to move as I watch him turn toward me. His chest rises and falls with each deep breath, and the muscle in his jaw ticks furiously.

"I've been thinking about you all fucking day," he says, his voice so low and rough it scrapes along my nerve endings like a physical touch. "Couldn't focus on a damn thing."

He takes one step toward me, then another, each movement deliberate and controlled.

I should say something clever, something to defuse the crackling tension between us, but my brain has short-circuited, leaving me only capable of watching him approach with a mixture of anticipation and need that borders on desperation.

"That dress," he continues, gaze traveling down my body then back up again, "has been driving me out of my mind since breakfast."

I glance down at the pink fabric still wrapped around my body, Tessa's fashion advice proving more effective than even she could have predicted. "I—"

His hands are on me before I can finish the thought, one curving around my waist while the other cups the back of my neck. The contrast between the gentleness of his touch and the raw need in his eyes makes my knees weak. And for one suspended moment, we just stare at each other.

Then he kisses me, and gentle is the last word I'd use to describe it.

His mouth claims mine with a hunger that matches the storm building inside me.

I gasp against his lips, and he takes advantage, his tongue sliding against mine in a way that makes my toes curl inside my boots.

My hands find their way to his shoulders, fingers digging into the solid muscle there as I try to anchor myself against the onslaught of sensation.

I arch into him, pressing my body against the hard planes of his chest, needing more contact, more friction, more everything.

"Fuck, Hailey," he growls against my mouth as his hands slide down to my hips, gripping me tightly.

"Been thinking about getting my hands on you again since you walked into breakfast wearing this.

" Bunching the fabric of my dress, he slowly pulls it higher.

"You knew exactly what you were doing, didn't you? "

I nod as his mouth traces a burning path along my jaw and down the column of my throat. "Wanted you to look at me," I admit breathlessly. "Wanted you to want me."

His laugh is dark and full of promise. "Mission fucking accomplished, sunshine." His teeth graze my collarbone, drawing a whimper from deep in my throat. "Haven't thought about anything else all day. Just you. This dress. And what's underneath it."

In one fluid movement, he lifts me onto the edge of my desk. Papers scatter, a pen clatters to the floor, but neither of us cares. He steps between my parted thighs, his hands sliding up my bare legs, leaving trails of fire in their wake.

"These legs," he murmurs, squeezing just above my knees before his palms continue their upward journey. "Couldn't stop staring at them. Kept imagining them wrapped around me while I fuck you senseless."

His words send another flood of wetness between my thighs, my body responding to him on a level I've never experienced before. I reach for him, fingers tangling in his hair to guide his mouth back to mine for another burning kiss.

"Bradley," I pant against his lips. "Touch me. Please."

His hands slide higher, fingers brushing against the edge of my underwear. "Here?" he asks, his voice rough with need. "Is this where you need me, sunshine?"

"Yes," I gasp, arching into his touch. "Please."

One finger traces the damp fabric between my legs, applying just enough pressure to make me squirm but not enough to give me what I need. "So wet already," he murmurs, sounding pleased. "Is all this for me?"

"Who else would it be for?" I pant.

His eyes darken further at my response, that possessive glint I'm recognizing making my breath catch. "Good answer."

Then he drops to his knees, pushes my dress up to my waist, and buries his face between my thighs. I cry out at the first hot stroke of his tongue through the thin cotton of my underwear.

"Been dreaming about tasting you," he growls against me, fingers hooking into the sides of my panties and tugging them down my legs. "Thinking about it for fucking weeks."

I kick the scrap of fabric away, spreading my thighs wider in blatant invitation. For a moment, he just stares, drinking in the sight of me exposed for him on my desk and the intensity of his gaze makes me feel more naked than I actually am.

"Beautiful," he whispers, more to himself than to me. Then his mouth is on me again, this time without barriers as his tongue slides through my wetness with devastating precision.

My head falls back, a broken sound escaping my throat as pleasure shoots through me like lightning. Gripping my thighs, he holds me open as he explores me with single-minded focus.

"Bradley," I gasp, one hand tangling in his hair. "That feels—"

He groans against me, the vibration adding another layer to the building pleasure. His tongue dips lower, teasing my entrance before returning to circle my clit.

I'm already embarrassingly close, tension coiling tight in my belly as his mouth works me with relentless skill. When he slides a finger inside me, curling it to hit that spot that makes my vision blur, I nearly come apart then and there.

But I want more. Want him inside me. Need to feel him stretching me, filling me completely.

"Bradley," I manage, tugging at his hair to pull his mouth away from me. "I need you inside me. Please."

He looks up at me from between my thighs. His lips are wet with evidence of my arousal and his eyes almost black with need. The sight nearly undoes me. His tongue flicks across his bottom lip as he straightens to stand in front of me.

Not wasting a single second, I reach for his belt, fumbling with the buckle in my haste. He helps me, our hands colliding as we work together to free him from the confines of his jeans. When my fingers finally wrap around him, hot and hard and impossibly thick, we both groan.

He positions himself at my entrance, the broad head of his cock sliding through my wetness, making us both shudder. Every nerve ending is on fire, my skin hypersensitive to his touch.

But underneath it all, a small slice of reality crashes back in. "Do you have a condom?"

Bradley freezes, his body going completely still. The hunger in his eyes dims slightly, replaced by something that looks like frustration mixed with disbelief. "Fuck," he mutters, his forehead dropping to rest against mine. "No. I don't."

My heart sinks even as my body continues to throb with need.

"I didn't come here intending to fuck you," he grumbles.

I arch an eyebrow, glancing pointedly at the chair wedged under the door handle. "Really?"

His laugh is low and rumbling, the sound vibrating through his chest. The movement pushes him slightly forward, and I feel the head of his cock slip just barely inside me. We both gasp at the contact, the sensation so intense it makes my vision blur.

"Okay," he admits, his voice strained as he fights to hold still. "I had every intention of making you come. Just not with my cock…yet."

His breath hot against my face as he struggles to maintain control. I can feel him trembling with the effort to hold still, the head of his cock barely inside me but enough to make every nerve ending scream for more.

"Just the tip," he whispers, his voice rough and desperate. "Please, sunshine. I need to feel you. Just a little."

My heart pounds so hard I'm sure he can hear it. Every rational thought tells me to wait, but my body is singing with need. The way he's looking at me—like I'm the only thing that matters in the entire world—makes my resolve crumble.

"Just the tip," I breathe, spreading my legs wider in invitation.

He groans, a sound that comes from somewhere deep in his chest as he pushes forward just slightly. The sensation is exquisite torture, not enough to satisfy but enough to drive us both to the edge of sanity. I can feel how thick he is, how he stretches me even with just this small invasion.

"Fuck, Hailey," he pants, his hands gripping my hips hard enough to leave marks. "So good. So tight."