Page 61 of For the Plot

I glance down, watching the slow motion of my thumb on her thigh. Her skin is flushed now. Her breathing’s gone shallow. I could touch her higher. Could slide my hand under her skirt and find out just how ready she is for me.

“I told myself I wasn’t going to touch you.”

“And now?”

“Now…” I look up, holding her gaze as I move my other hand to run my thumb along her jaw. “I’m trying not to fuck you in the back of this car,” I say quietly as I watch my hand slide higher, disappearing beneath her skirt. Her eyes close, her head falling back slightly against the leather seat. My fingertip grazes the damp warmth of her panties, making me groan audibly.

“Fuck.” If I clench my teeth any tighter, I’m convinced I’ll shatter a tooth. “I can smell your arousal.”

I press my thumb against her just slightly, the pressure enough to make her throb against me. Her lips part, her throat working to swallow. I move my finger up an inch, then back down, torturously slow. “Tell me to stop.”

Her mouth opens. Closes. She doesn’t say it. That’s all the answer I need.

“You drive me insane,” I say, my voice rough now. “You show up every day in those skirts and heels, acting like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“You exist,” I say through gritted teeth. “That’s the fucking problem.”

She blinks, caught off guard. She hadn’t expected that. Neither had I.

I slide my hand away from her and back down her leg, giving her back her space. If I keep touching her, I’m going to break every rule I’ve held in place since the moment she walked into my office.

We sit in silence again, but it’s not the same silence from earlier. This one is vibrating. Wanting. She’s still breathing hard, and I’m still fighting the need to take her mouth and press her down into the leather seat and show her just how unprofessional I can be.

When the car slows, she startles slightly, realizing we’ve arrived. She glances out the window—her building looming in the glow of the streetlight—then back at me.

“I’ll walk you in,” I say.

She huffs a breath that’s a half laugh. “Of course you will.”

The door opens and she climbs out, not waiting for me. I follow her up the steps, and when she reaches the front door, she spins to face me with a look of defiance on her face and I already know she’s trying to put up a defense, to protect herself from whatever rejection she assumes is coming.

“You’re—” she starts, but whatever she was going to say dies on her lips when she sees my face.

Something in me fractures. Maybe it’s the way her eyes soften just barely. Maybe it’s the flush still coloring her chest. Maybe it’s the simple fact that she hasn’t told me to leave.

I step forward. Intentionally. And then I reach for her. My hands are in her hair, on either side of her face as I tilt her head back. Her lips are soft and warm against mine. I’m gentle at first, my lips caressing hers softly once, twice. But then I feel the tip of her warm tongue against mine and I lose it.

I don’t just kiss her. I claim her. Hot and needy. She moans into it, her fingers fisting in the front of my shirt as I press her back against the door. Her bag thuds to the ground. Her hips arch against mine, and I groan as I feel the heat of her through my pants.

Fuck.

I break the kiss long enough to drag my mouth down her neck, tasting her skin. She’s gasping now, clutching me like she doesn’t want me to stop. She lifts her leg, hooking it around my hip.

I’m seconds from lifting her against the door and sliding my hand under that skirt when she whispers, “Come inside.”

I freeze. My forehead drops to hers. I’m panting. So is she.

“Skye,” I rasp, “if I come inside—I won’t stop.”

She swallows. “I don’t want you to.”

I pull back an inch, just enough to look in her eyes. “If I come inside…” I don’t finish the thought. “We have an early flight tomorrow for the trip to Boston.”

She closes her eyes. Her lips part. “Please.”

Jesus Christ. Not the whimpered please.