CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Ford
The whole thing lasted seconds. Running into Ellery. Landing on top of her. Having proof of how goddamn perfectly our bodies fit together.
I groan.
It may have only been seconds, but it’s all that’s needed for a match to strike and flames to ignite.
And fuck did they ignite.
Desire. Need. Want. Greed. The four battled within me in those split seconds. Fuck decorum. Screw our partnership. The things that were going through my head were anything but partnership-amiable.
What I would have given to lean in and kiss her lips. To thread my fingers through her hair and knock her thighs apart with my knee and taste her there.
And I bet that taste would be as addictive as the feeling of sinking into her. Of hearing her moans as I did. As reveling in her slick heat as we drove each other to the brink.
Ellery naked.
Christ. I can’t get the image of her out of my head. The peaches and cream of her skin only accentuated the pink of her nipples and the gorgeous curve of her hips.
Curves are my kryptonite and damn, does she have them.
I shift again, the sheets falling off me as my dick hardens and thoughts run crazy.
She’s all I can think about.
A wall between us.
A bed away.
A closed door apart.
And I was tempted. God, how I was tempted with her body beneath mine—soft and warm and inviting—until I looked to the wrist my hand was pinning and was snapped back to reality.
To the tan line on her finger.
To the Daily Transcript article I read this morning and the picture accompanying it. One about Chandler Holcomb and his fiancée Ellery Sinclair as he accepted his award for Architect of the Year.
And that reminder was like a shock of cold water despite the heat between us.