Page 37 of Most Likely to Deny Love (Yearbook #2)

MIA

I pretended to study my computer screen, but my eyes kept darting to the hallway where Jack’s voice rumbled low with those of Directors Stevens and Johnson.

Seven fifteen on a Tuesday night. The office had emptied out hours ago, the only sounds the hum of the heater and the occasional creak of the building settling.

Three weeks. Three incredibly frustrating, arousing, maddening weeks since I’d taken the initiative in that conference room. Since then, Jack had driven me to two more mind-blowing orgasms.

First was the supply closet incident last Wednesday.

He’d pulled me into the narrow space, shut the door, pressed me against shelves stocked with printer paper and office supplies.

His hand had snaked up my skirt, fingers finding me already wet and ready.

Three minutes of his skilled fingers working me while his other hand covered my mouth to muffle my cries.

Then yesterday, in the back of his town car while his driver navigated us to a client meeting.

The privacy partition raised, my skirt bunched around my waist as Jack’s fingers brought me apart while we discussed the meeting.

The dichotomy of his professional tone while I fell to pieces beside him had been almost too much to bear.

And yet, after all these encounters, all these stolen moments where he’d pleasured me until I saw stars, nothing more. No invitation to his house. No suggestion of taking this further. Not even a hint about when we might finally cross that last line.

Was he edging me? The thought sent a fresh wave of heat through my core even as my eyes narrowed.

The low murmur of voices in the hallway grew louder, then faded as the directors left for the night. Jack’s footsteps approached, and I heard him pause when he reached his office doorway. Surprise flickered across his face when he noticed me still at my desk.

Enough was enough. If Jack Sullivan thought he could keep me in this state of perpetual arousal without following through, he had another thing coming. Shoving my chair back with more force than necessary, I marched straight into his office.

Jack had settled behind his desk, loosening his tie as he glanced up at me with one eyebrow raised. Without breaking eye contact, I circled around to his side of the desk. Jack swiveled in his chair to face me, those hazel eyes darkening as he took in my determined expression.

“I’m coming over tonight,” I announced, my voice steady despite the butterflies rioting in my stomach. “And we’re going to bang.”

He stared at me for a long moment, his face unreadable. Then, slowly, deliberately, he spoke.

“No.”

The single word floated between us, and I felt my confidence waver. But only for a second.

I frowned. “What do you mean, no? I know where you live. If I just turn up, you won’t be able to resist me.”

Something dangerous flashed in his eyes, a mix of desire and amusement. “Very true. I’ll have to leave the state, in that case.”

“I don’t understand, Jack. Why won’t you fuck me?” The question came out more frustrated than seductive, but I didn’t care. I knew exactly how much he wanted me. I’d felt it. I’d watched his control shatter. This rejection wasn’t about desire, which only made it more confusing.

His answer was to pull me onto his lap, my legs straddling his hips as I settled against him. My skirt rode up my thighs, and I couldn’t help the small gasp that escaped when I felt his hardness pressing exactly where I needed it.

His mouth claimed mine, anything but gentle. Demanding, possessive, it left no doubt about how much he wanted me. When he finally pulled back, I was panting.

“Paris.”

The word made no sense at first. I blinked at him, trying to process through my lust-addled brain. Then suddenly, it clicked.

“You won’t fuck me until I go to Paris with you? You actually have been edging me this whole time?”

“Correct.”

“But… but why?”

His eyes burned into mine as his lips found the spot just below my ear.

“Because I want to take you to Paris.” His mouth trailed down my neck, each word punctuated by a kiss.

“I want to show you Notre-Dame at sunset.” Another kiss.

“The Seine at night.” His teeth grazed my pulse point.

“Take you to a little boulangerie off Rue Cler where they have the best croissants.”

My breath caught as he continued, his hands sliding up my thighs.

“I want to fuck you against the windows of our suite at Le Meurice.” The raw desire in his voice made me shiver.

“Watch you take your first bite of real French pastry.” Kiss.

“Feel you come apart in my arms while we watch the Eiffel Tower light up.” His hips shifted beneath me, making me gasp. “Taste you on the balcony at sunrise.”

My head fell back as he found that sensitive spot behind my ear.

“I want to take you to the Louvre.” Kiss.

“Bend you over the desk in our room and make you scream my name.” His hands gripped my hips, pressing me down against him.

“Show you Montmartre.” Kiss. “Bury myself inside you while you look out over the city.”

My fingers tangled in his hair as he kept up his torturous assault on my neck. “The Musée d’Orsay at closing time.” Kiss. “You, on your knees, in our private dining room.” Kiss. “Sacré-C?ur in the morning light.” His hand slid higher up my thigh. “Making you come so hard you forget your own name.”

I was breathless, my entire body on fire as he painted this picture of Paris, mixing the romantic with the carnal in a way that made my head spin.

“And then,” he murmured against my throat, “when we’ve seen everything, done everything, I want to take you to that little café on ?le Saint-Louis.

” Kiss. “Feed you macarons.” Kiss. “And finally, when you’re full of French wine and chocolate and the magic of the city.

..” He pulled back to look me directly in the eyes.

“I want to lay you down on silk sheets and fuck you until the sun comes up.”

I stared at him, utterly speechless.

“How does that sound?”

“Pretty great,” I gasped out, still reeling from the sensory overload of his words. Then, “Especially the bit about the croissant.”

His smile was devastating, a mix of humor and heat that made my heart do a little flip. “Say yes, Mia.”

My brain short-circuited. I tried to think of a single reason to say no, but came up completely blank. Between his intoxicating words and the feel of his hard body beneath me, rational thought had abandoned ship.

“Fine, Jack. I’ll go to Paris with you.”

The moment the words left my mouth, the humor in his eyes transformed into something feral. “Good girl.”

In one swift motion, he grabbed my blouse and ripped it open, buttons scattering across the floor. He pulled the fabric behind me, twisting it with one hand to trap my arms.

His other hand slid between my legs, finding me soaking and ready. Without warning, two fingers pushed inside me, and I cried out at the sudden fullness.

“Make yourself come.” His voice was a command as his thumb found my clit while his fingers worked inside me. “Ride my hand, Mia. Show me how much you want this.”

I couldn’t have disobeyed if I tried. My hips moved of their own accord, grinding down against his hand, seeking friction, seeking release. The position left me exposed, vulnerable, at his mercy, and the powerlessness only turned me on more.

“That’s it,” he growled, watching my face. “Take what you need.”

The combination of his fingers curling inside me and his thumb circling my clit was devastating. I was close, so close, when he leaned forward and took my nipple between his teeth through my lace bra.

I shattered, my orgasm crashing over me in waves so intense I saw stars. My body convulsed against his hand, my cry of pleasure echoing off the office walls as I rode out the aftershocks.

When I finally came back to myself, gasping for breath, Jack was watching me with an expression of pure satisfaction. His fingers were still buried inside me, and I could feel him hard and straining against my thigh.

“Only...” he said, slowly withdrawing his hand and bringing his fingers to his mouth to taste me, “twenty-three more days until Paris.”

The promise in his eyes told me I was in for the most exquisite torture of my life.