Page 102 of Love to Loathe Him

“Once a week, you come to my apartment. We have dinner then I spend the rest of the night eating you out and fucking you.”

I choke a little. I’m not used to this level of intensity. I feel his hardness press against me.

“I know what you taste like now, Gemma. I look at you in the office and want to eat you out on top of my desk. And it’s becoming a problem because I can’t focus on anything else.”

“It’s not my fault I taste good,” I splutter.

Liam’s eyes darken, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly timbre. “You’re right, it’s not your fault. But it is your problem now, just as much as it is mine.” He leans in closer, his breath hot against my ear. “And I don’t like giving up things I enjoy. Now, are we going to keep talking all night, or are you going to show me your bedroom?”

He asks it in a confident, husky tone, as though it’s a foregone conclusion that we’ll be continuing this rendezvous in a more horizontal setting.

Part of me wants to tell him to sod off, to get out of my flat and take his stupidly handsome face with him.

“Fine. This way.”

I take his hand and lead him down the hall, feeling like I’m in some surreal dream where Liam McLaren is about to see my bedroom.

“It’s quaint,” he says, eyeing my room. His gaze lands on my bedside photos. “Are those your parents?”

“Yes,” I confirm, suddenly self-conscious of my un-CEO-like flat.

“Your mum’s a beauty. I see where you get it from.”

“Thank you,” I say, feeling flattered.

I try to see my bedroom through his eyes. Are those my giant granny panties peeking out from under the bed? “I bet this isnothing like your place. Probably no mismatched furniture in the McLaren household.”

“Mine is . . . minimalistic,” he says, and I can’t help but snort.

“I know your place cost ten million pounds. That’s not exactly minimalistic, Liam. Unless you’re comparing it to Buckingham Palace.”

His lips quirk. “I gave you the chance to see for yourself.”

“I was trying to do the right thing. You know, the professional thing, which is not going to my boss’s house to fuck him.”

“And yet here we are.” He starts unbuttoning his shirt. “Still trying to do the right thing, Gemma?”

I swallow hard, my heart racing. “I don’t think it’s working.”

And then I’m just . . . standing there, gawking at him. But can you blame me? Just the sight of Liam in my bedroom is enough to make me wet.

“Come here,” he commands, and my body obeys before my brain can catch up.

Liam’s fingers find my zipper, and I hold my breath as he slowly, torturously, pulls it down. My dress slips off my shoulders, pooling at my feet.

His hands move to my bra, unclipping it with practiced ease. Then he’s brushing my hair aside, and oh god, his lips are on my neck. A shiver runs through me, every inch of my skin hypersensitive to his touch.

His mouth trails down, leaving a path of fire along my collarbone, down to my chest. And then . . . fuck, then he’s sucking on my breast, one hand kneading the other. His tongue swirls around my nipple, and I swear I can feel it all the way down to my toes.

My clit is throbbing, aching for attention. I rise up on my tiptoes, desperate to get closer, to make sure his mouth never leaves mybody. Because if it does, I might die. I’ll melt into a puddle right here on my bedroom floor.

I tangle my fingers in his hair, holding him to me. “Don’t stop,” I gasp, not caring how needy I sound. “Please, Liam, don’t stop.”

“I won’t,” he murmurs as his hand slips into my panties, his fingers sliding through my embarrassingly wet slit.

I let out a loud moan as his fingers work their magic. One hand is still between my legs, the other cupping my breast, and oh god, I can’t stop shaking. I’m so turned on I feel like I might combust.

Suddenly, he’s lifting me up, and before I can process what’s happening, I’m on my back on the bed. I watch, heart racing, as he pulls my panties off. The anticipation is killing me.