16. Like Cherry
16
LIKE CHERRY
Bridger
I’ve done it. I’ve stepped over the line I swore I’d never cross. But, as I sweep my lips over hers, it’s still not too late. I could stop.
This could be one hot kiss that’s over far too soon, and then I’ll walk away.
Nearly exonerated.
I could say it’s a mistake.
Write it off as a one-time thing that’ll never happen again. If I don’t let it go any farther, that is.
But as our lips brush once more, my bones crackle with electricity. Then it’s as if the whole city sparks. We kiss like a storm, like thunder and lightning, and the sky breaking open. And in this tempest of a kiss, I know. I just know.
There’s no turning back.
I could stop. But I won’t. And so I will take what I want.
I clasp her face, and I crush her lips, consuming Harlow.
This is so wrong.
Her luscious sighs fill my head.
This is so right.
She’s so responsive, melting under my kiss, murmuring sweet sighs and gasps. Her sounds go to my head. Her longing electrifies me.
And I need even more.
Deeper. Closer. I’m unwilling to stop. Uninterested in a thing beyond this office. She’s here with me and fuck the world.
Her hands climb up my chest, traveling over the fabric of my shirt. Gripping me tight, refusing to let go too.
A tug from her.
A push from me.
And we are a tango of a first kiss.
Her lips taste incredible. She’s like…
I break apart, panting. “You taste like cherry,” I say.
“It’s my lip gloss.”
“It’s addictive.”
Her eyes twinkle. “So take another hit.”
“I will,” I say, but first, I indulge with my eyes, savoring the sight of her. Her beautiful face, from her glittering eyes to her pretty lips to her delicate neck.
I want to explore every inch of her body. Want to kiss all the terrain of Harlow, learn how she tastes everywhere—her collarbone, her neck, her stomach, behind her knees, between her thighs.
With that, I kiss her again, and my brain goes haywire. My body overheats.
She grapples with my shirt collar, those nimble fingers clasping tight. A needy moan falls from her lips as I kiss her.
I suck on her bottom lip. She whimpers.
That sound.
That sexy sound is killing me.
I should not know what she sounds like when she’s turned on.
But now I do, and now I am consumed with even more want. It runs through my blood. It drives me on. I nibble on her lips, a mix of teeth and tongue, soft and hard, push and pull.
Then, when she ropes her eager hands around the back of my neck and tugs me impossibly closer, it’s hardly a kiss anymore.
It’s foreplay.
I press my body to hers, letting her feel my arousal, craving hers desperately too.
So much it’s driving me mad.
Making me reckless.
One more kiss and I’ll stop.
But her lips, and her scent, and her hands roaming over me…
I have to touch her. I let go of her face, drag a hand down her side, brushing the outline of her breast.
She trembles, then murmurs, “ Oh, god .”
It’s enough for me to break the kiss. To stare at her with, I’m sure, wild eyes.
She looks back at me with even wilder ones. “Bridger,” she whispers, her voice like smoke.
“Yes?” I ask hazily.
“I want you,” she whispers.
Three words and I might as well surrender.
I hardly know what to say. I want you too is patently obvious. Instead, I slide my palm along her hip, brushing the outside of her thigh, heading for the hem of her skirt. The whole time she’s gazing up at me, lips parted and red, neck stretched long and inviting.
“And you are entirely bad for me,” I say at last. Because it’s true. And necessary.
She just smiles. Slow, a little wicked. Then she bites the corner of her bottom lip before she says, “But that’s not stopping you, is it?”
I grit my teeth, trying, fucking trying, to stop. But then, she tilts her chin. An invitation. “Have you thought about my neck before?”
It’s like she can see inside my filthy mind. I breathe harshly.
Walk away. Just walk away.
I don’t walk away.
“Too much,” I admit. I don’t even know what rational thought is anymore. I’ve lost it with her.
She lifts her right hand, and sensually, seductively, brushes her fingertips along her neck, then down to the hollow of her throat, then just a little farther. Teasing at the top of her breasts. Leaving a trail for me to follow.
I dip my face, and I kiss her there. She tastes so sweet, so tempting. Soon, I’m moaning as I layer open-mouthed caresses along the column of her throat. My hand plays with the hem of her skirt, and I’m flirting with the red zone of danger.
Kissing her is one thing. Touching her intimately is another.
If I can just maintain that line…
I’ll indulge in one or two or ten more seconds, and I won’t do it again.
But then she slides one hand into my hair while the other hand wraps around my hand. On her thigh . She threads her fingers through mine.
My hand buzzes. Everything tingles. My whole body is vibrating, and I can’t stand how good she feels. I break the kiss, meet her lust-struck gaze.
But I don’t just see lust in her shimmery eyes.
I see confidence. I see certainty. I see a woman with a plan. She doesn’t look away as she moves our joined hands under her skirt.
Warning signs flash, and still…I go.
She’s guiding my palm along the silky skin of her inner thigh.
“Harlow, honey,” I warn, the affectionate nickname slipping out, unbidden.
“Honey?” she asks, but it’s hardly a question. More a dirty delight.
I don’t answer her.
I don’t need to.
We both know what I just did.
She’s like a gorgeous silhouette in a lighthouse, guiding a sailor home. I follow her spotlight as her hand drags mine up her flesh, closer and closer still.
I can feel her heat. I can sense her wetness.
What kind of panties does she wear? How long would it take to make her come? What does she sound like when she loses control?
Wicked thoughts lash my mind. I close my eyes, squeezing them shut as my fingers come this close to crossing a terrible line.
For a few tense seconds, I hope for a fire alarm, a phone call, a knock on the door.
But I’ll have to be my own knock.
Like I’ve been burned, I yank away, step back, drag my hand across my mouth. Like I can wipe away the taste of her.
“I can’t,” I mutter, shaking my head, ashamed.
Or perhaps I’m just shocked I’ve let it go this far.
I can’t mess around with my business partner’s twenty-one-year-old daughter.
Her eyes widen in question. “Why?”
It’s a valid thing to ask when someone’s staring at you like they want to tear off your clothes.
But the answer is too easy.
Resigned and frustrated, I sweep my arm out to indicate the office, then the door, then somehow all of New York. “Because of all this,” I say, angry with myself. “Lucky 21, and the business and…everything.”
Her eyes shine.
Her lower lip quivers.
Oh, fuck. I can’t stand making her sad. I advance toward her then stop, thinking better of it. Thinking . Finally thinking.
“Harlow,” I say softly.
“Yes?”
“It’s just too risky,” I say, imploring her to understand. I don’t enumerate all the things that could go wrong—I’m risking my reputation as well as this company, and her father could turn on her too. He could take his support away from her. She doesn’t even have a real job yet. I can’t risk her future either. “And you. I don’t want to hurt you.”
She purses her lips and nods. “I understand.” Then she draws a breath and seems to erase whatever emotions flickered through her moments ago. “I should go.”
I hate the thought, but I nod crisply. “You should,” I say, and the look on her face is so tough, so strong.
She reaches for the door, looking wise beyond her years, strong beyond her age.
“Good night,” she says in a tone I’ve never heard from her before. Both sad and cold. Like the tone is a necessity.
“Good night.”
She leaves, and when the tap of her shoes fades, the elevator doors ding closed, I slump on my couch and drop my head in my hands, wishing my chest didn’t feel so damn hollow.