Page 33 of The Sole Suspect
“Only for you,” I confessed, the truth spilling out unbidden as another pulse of warmth spread through my lower body, slick gathering between my thighs.
A string of appreciative curses fell from his lips as his hands curved possessively around my hips. “Time to get you upstairs.”
I moved to turn, but Dominic had other ideas. In a display of strength that made desire pool low in my belly, he lifted me effortlessly, cradling me against his chest before adjusting his grip. My hardness strained uncomfortably against the fabric of my pants, the friction both maddening and delicious.
“I can walk,” I said with no real protest in my tone, secretly thrilled by his show of dominance.
“Mine,” was his only response as he carried me through the darkened shop, past the rows of men’s loafers and ladies’ pumps, past the workbench where I’d spent countless hours, never imagining I’d be carried through my own shop like prey claimed by a predator.
He navigated the narrow staircase with surprising grace, one hand steadying himself against the wall, the other securing me against his chest. Each step sent a jolt through my oversensitive body. The wooden stairs creaked beneath our combined weight—a familiar sound now made erotic by context.
At the landing, he paused only long enough to push open my apartment door before carrying me straight to the bedroom. The silvery glow of moonlight illuminated the simple space—myunmade bed, the worn dresser, the single chair where I’d draped yesterday’s clothes—all witnesses to what was about to unfold.
With deliberate care that belied his obvious urgency, he laid me on the mattress, then straightened to his full height. The moonlight carved shadows across the planes of his face as he stared down at me.
“You’ve haunted my dreams the past two months,” he said, voice pitched low with raw desire.
The intensity of his gaze made my skin prickle with awareness. I kicked my shoes off and reached for the topmost button on my trousers, suddenly desperate to be free of the clothing that felt abrasive against my fever-sensitive skin. “I want to feel you,” I said, not hiding the naked want in my voice. “All of you.”
The scent of his arousal thickened as he watched me struggle with the fastening. “Let me,” he said, gently swatting my hands away to undo the buttons himself.
I gasped as a button went flying. “Penny’s gonna kill me! He likes those because of the Cuban waistband.”
“Sorry,” he said. “I’ll find it later so he can sew it back on.” He grasped the fabric at my hips and tugged, pulling my trousers off in one fluid motion.
“But right now, I’m going to give you everything you need,” he promised as he dropped my pants on the floor.
My body responded to his words with a throb of anticipation, internal muscles contracting around emptiness that only he could fill. The promise of his knot—the thought of being tied together as he claimed me—made fresh slick pool beneath me.
His eyes were dark with barely restrained hunger as reached for my tie. “Too many layers,” he growled, loosening the knot with surprising dexterity given his state.
When his fingers moved to the mother-of-pearl buttons of my brocade vest, the memory of the trouser button penetrated the haze of my heat. I caught his wrists.
Penny possessed quite a collection of antique fasteners. He’d collected them the years—so many that I’d joked he was his own notions shop. He could replace a lost trouser button. Vintage iridescent shell fasteners bearing a carved “S-H”?
Those would be decidedly more difficult to replace.
“Careful with that,” I managed, my voice strained. “It was my great-grandfather’s.”
Something shifted in Dominic’s expression—a softening around his eyes even as his pupils remained blown wide with rut. He glanced down at the antique fabric with its worn pearl buttons, then back to my face.
“Show me,” he said, his voice gentler despite the obvious strain of his restraint.
The tenderness in the request made my chest tighten. Even in the grip of his rut—when alphas were notorious for their single-minded aggression—he was still Dominic. Still the man who had helped expose Holloway’s corruption.
With trembling fingers, I loosened the tie completely and set it aside. Then I carefully unbuttoned the vest, slipping it from my shoulders before folding it with practiced movements and placing it on the nightstand. The shirt followed, each buttonreceiving the same attention despite the urgency thrumming through my veins.
His gaze tracked every motion, his respect for something precious to me evident despite the pheromones thick in the air between us. When I stood before him in just my boxers, his fingers twitched at his sides.
“Allow me?” he asked, his fingers brushing my waistband but waiting for permission.
I nodded, oddly moved by his restraint. He tugged my boxers down and helped me step out of them, his touch reverent despite the obvious strain of his control. When I finally stood naked before him, his gaze traveled over me with appreciative heat. “Beautiful,” he murmured.
Then, to my surprise, he attacked his own clothing with none of the care he’d shown mine. The expensive Tom Ford suit jacket was yanked open, buttons flying across the room to bounce against the floorboards.
A startled laugh escaped me. “Your suit!”
“Just clothes,” he growled, literally tearing his shirt open in his haste to be skin-to-skin with me. “You’re what matters.”