6. Chapter Six #3
Then he threads his fingers through my hair, adjusts the angle I’m sitting at. He hesitates just slightly, looking in my eyes.
My lips part, trying to draw in a breath, but there’s no air around.
I lean a little more forward, my balance not where it probably should be — but right where I want it to be.
He tracks the short inch of movement towards him.
And then, in a split second reaction, he kisses me.
Not gentle. Not careful. His mouth crashes into mine, tongue sweeping past my lips.
He tastes like Blanton's and something unexpectedly sweet and rich. His fingers dig into my hips — hard enough to tell me it's okay to want this just as badly as he does. He pulls me closer and the room starts to spin. I can't tell if it's the bourbon or the way his tongue tangles with mine.
I make some embarrassing sound — half gasp, half moan — and shift so I'm properly straddling him. Both knees on either side of his hips. I’m pressed full-contact against the hard length of him through his pants.
And beyond all that, I am one millimeter away from begging him for whatever this is and more.
The ache between my thighs goes from rolling simmer to full boil faster than I can even give coherent thought to.
I don’t need to analyze it.
My body is voting yes even if my brain is filing protest paperwork.
Shut up, brain.
I forget about his ribs until he grunts sharp with pain.
"Shit, sorry—"
"Don't care," he mutters against my mouth, hands tangling in my hair. "Don't you dare stop now."
The kiss turns messy. Teeth and tongue and a bunch of things they don’t teach in biology class. I grind down reflexively when he bites my lip. My hands everywhere — shoulders, chest, hair.
His good hand slides under my shirt, fingers tracing my spine. His palm is rough, the calluses from stick work are scuffing against my skin.
"Fuck," he breathes when we break for air. His lips move to my throat. "Sarah—"
"Don't." I tilt my head to give him better access. "Don't make this more than it is."
"What is it?" His teeth scrape my pulse point.
"Eighteen months of—" The words tumble out, bourbon-honest. "Watching you walk through doors in those suits. That smile on TV when you score. The way everyone at the table last week thought we were being weird."
He pulls back to look at me. He looks like a mess, and so help me, I want to make him messier.
"That all?" His hand slides higher, thumb brushing the underside of my breast.
"Has to be." My voice shakes.
His mouth finds my shoulder.
Ranger barks sharply.
We freeze. Kevin's lips on my skin. My hips pressed against his.
"He's watching," I whisper, mortified.
Kevin lifts his head, staring at his dog with complete betrayal. "Ranger. Crate. Now."
Ranger tilts his head. Tail wagging. He thinks this is a game.
Oh, Ranger. Nobody’s playing.
Kevin's voice goes full authority. "Crate. Now."
Ranger huffs but obeys, reluctantly trotting away from the action.
"Better. Not getting cock blocked by my dog," Kevin mutters, turning back to me. Hands settling on my hips again. "Where were—"
I grab his face and kiss him before he can finish. Before either of us can think about what a monumentally stupid thing this is.
My shirt comes off. I think I help. Then his hands are everywhere, tracing roughened trails on my skin.
When he unhooks my bra one-handed — show-off — the straps slide down my arms. Cool air hits overheated skin for exactly one second before his hands replace it with fire.
I make sounds I'll regret tomorrow.
“I’ve wanted this," he mutters against my collarbone. "Wanted you since that first board meeting when you told Harrington his budget proposal was bullshit."
"We’re just getting this out of our systems," I gasp. "Just— dog sitter with benefits—"
"You’re more than a dog sitter. But I’ll take the benefits," he corrects, then bites where my neck meets my shoulder.
I gasp. Arch into him. His hands cup my breasts, and the second the roughened palms drag across my nipples, they peak as though struck by lightning and my brain short-circuits completely.
"Kevin—"
"Bedroom," he says against my throat. "You have no idea how long I've wanted to do this."
I have some idea. I have eighteen months of ideas.
But I can't form words because his hand is sliding down my stomach, fingers hooking into the waistband of my leggings. His knuckles brush the skin just below my navel, so close to where I need him that I might actually die if he doesn't—
He pulls back just enough to look at me.
Eyes dark. He’s matching me, breath for ragged breath.
"Last chance," he says. "Tell me to stop and I will."
I should stop. I should be smart about this. I should think about tomorrow, about the rescue, about how spectacularly this could blow up in my face.
But Kevin St. Clair is looking at me like I'm the only thing in the world that matters, and I'm tired of being smart.
"Don't you dare stop," I whisper.
His answering grin is absolutely devastating.
Then his mouth is on mine again and the last coherent thought I have is that I'm definitely going to regret this in the morning.
But right now?
Right now, it’s not morning yet.