Page 92 of Only the Wicked

I undo the first button on my blouse.

“Easy for a guy who can afford this suite to say.”

With the third button, the silky blouse falls open.

He swallows; gaze locked on my chest. “You haven’t asked me much about that.”

“Your business does well. What is there to ask?”

The blouse flutters to the floor.

Cool air dances through the mesh lace. His gaze rakes over the exposed skin.

“What about you? Unemployed and vacationing at one of the most expensive inns in North Carolina.”

I wondered if he’d thought about that.

“A gift to myself.”

My fingers work the zipper on the back of my skirt.

“I work hard. I can afford it.”

It’s true. All those years abroad on the CIA’s dime, I stashed almost everything I earned. Until everything went to shit. All thanks to a yet-discovered someone.

The smooth silk liner glides over my butt cheeks, the outer curves of my thighs, and whooshes to the floor, raising goosebumps in its wake.

“Jesus, look at you.” His voice is thick with appreciation.

My shoulders lift, my back arches, and I stand before him, chin raised, proud.

On autopilot, I enter his vicinity, standing between his spread legs, looking down on him.

His dark gaze meets mine, and I kneel.

The stretch in my calves burns. My knees flatten on the rug, and my palms flatten on each of his muscular thighs.

His hands fall to his sides and his knees spread, making room.

“Who are you Sydney Parker?”

I lick my lower lip and reach for his belt buckle.

As my fingers press into the soft, buttery leather, he unbuttons his shirt and removes it, tossing it on the far end of the sofa.

When I unbutton his pants, he leans forward and cups my breast inside the lace. My nipple swells with his rough touch.

“On my lap.”

I follow his command, gaze locked on his lips, my mouth watering, my sex needy.

With my legs on each side of his thighs and the sharp points of my heels aimed behind me, I grind my hips over his groin, earning a guttural groan.

“Who are you, Rhodes MacMillan?”

His fingers tangle with my hair and he directs me down until our mouths meet.

Our kiss is hungry. Nothing is soft as we press into each other. If anything, a battle wages for dominance. For control. A competition.