Chapter 27 #2
Ignoring Mr. Puffs’s offended yowl, I push him off my lap and rush to the closet, frantically yanking out one outfit after another.
I’m not dressing up for Marcus; it’s for me, I tell myself.
I want to be presentable because it’s the civilized thing to do.
I’d do it for anyone, even Kendall. Especially Kendall, come to think of it.
I’d never hear the end of it if she saw me looking like a hobo.
Of course, as luck would have it, this Saturday is laundry day, and I have next to nothing in my closet.
But anything is an upgrade over what I’m currently wearing, so I wriggle into my skinny jeans—so named because I need to be way skinnier to comfortably wear them—and yank on a gray sweater that only has a little bit of cat hair on it.
There. Done. Never mind that I can barely close the button on the jeans or that pulling on the sweater has created static, making my hair look like I’ve been struck by lightning.
I smooth my palms over the madly puffed-up curls, pinch my cheeks to give them a little color, and swipe on a pink lip gloss—just in case.
The doorbell rings as I’m about to put on boots instead of my fuzzy house slippers.
Crap, crap, crap.
I was hoping he wouldn’t show.
No, that’s a lie. I would’ve been disappointed if he didn’t show—but only because I want to give him a piece of my mind. Who the hell does he think he is? Getting me those outrageously expensive gifts—that bouquet must’ve also cost a pretty penny—and ordering me to go on a date with him?
I’m so worked up that I stomp over to the door and yank it open—and only then remember the pink fuzzy slippers I still have on.
“Hi,” Marcus murmurs, gazing down at me, and I forget all about my outrage and my slippers, my breath catching at the dark heat in those cool blue eyes.
Somehow, over the past two weeks, I’ve forgotten how big he is, and how striking his harshly masculine features are.
In his intimidating attire of perfectly tailored suit, crisp blue shirt, subtly striped tie, and unbuttoned knee-length coat, he’s like some kind of modern-day king, exuding wealth and power—and more than his fair share of potent animal magnetism.
I can literally feel my blood rushing faster through my veins, heating up every inch of my skin until the icy gusts of wind outside feel like a balmy summer breeze.
“H-hi,” I stutter out, realizing I’m staring up at him with my mouth open.
“I mean… hello.” The inability to use words that had afflicted me with the text messages hasn’t gone away, I note with the small part of my brain that’s still functioning.
The rest of my mind is blank. I can’t recall any of the speeches I prepared as I paced across my room, or why I even prepared them in the first place.
All I can think about as I look at him is how those big warm hands had felt on my skin and how those soft masculine lips had nibbled on my ear, sending chills of pleasure down my body.
“Emma.” His voice is low and deep, so velvety it’s like a massage with a happy ending for my ears. “Kitten, are you ready?”
“Ready?” Oh God, get it together, Emma! He doesn’t mean that sexually!
Unless he does, in which case the answer is yes, a thousand times yes.
Maybe other human females don’t go into heat, but that’s exactly what seems to happen to me when I’m with Marcus.
Already, my panties are damp, and it’s all I can do to stand still instead of leaning in and rubbing against him like a cat marking her territory.
“To go,” he clarifies, glancing down, and I follow his gaze to my slippers—which are still as pink and fuzzy as ever.
With a massive effort of will, I gather my scrambled brains. “Go where? I’m not—”
“To the Greek place we never got a chance to try the other week,” he says smoothly. “It’s really good, I promise—and not expensive in the least.”
“But—”
“It’s very casual too,” he says. “But you still might want to put on your shoes. Here, those will do.” He steps forward, and I instinctively back up, letting him into the apartment and closing the door behind him on autopilot.
Ignoring Mr. Puffs hissing at him, Marcus walks past me and picks up the boots I’d taken out of the closet. Then he returns and kneels in front of me, like an assistant at a shoe store. Clasping my ankle in one large hand, he takes off my slipper and starts fitting my sock-clad foot into the boot.
What remains of my brain short-circuits, the feel of his hard, warm fingers on my ankle as erotic as if he’d started sucking on my toes.
Oh God, is that a new fantasy of mine? Because all of a sudden, I can’t think of anything I want more than for Marcus to take off my sock and press his lips to my ankle, then trail hot, wet kisses over the top of my foot before—
“Here, give me your other foot,” he murmurs, jolting me out of my depraved daydream, and I blink, a hot flush crawling up my neck as I realize that one boot is already on my foot—and that he put it there.
Feeling like a perverted Cinderella, I blurt out, “I can do that,” and bend down to intercept him as he reaches for my other foot. Except I miscalculate, and my foot comes up just as I’m lowering my head.
With a startled cry, I pitch forward—only to catch myself on Marcus’s broad shoulders.
His hands immediately close around my waist, steadying me, and we end up nose to nose, so close that I can feel his warm breath on my lips and smell the faint hint of cool breeze and fresh pine—his aftershave, most likely.
His eyes aren’t just blue, I notice dazedly as he pulls me into a kneeling position next to him.
His irises have flecks of silver in them, some light enough to be almost white.
They’re beautiful, and the way his pupils are dilating is mesmerizing me, even as growing arousal quickens my breath and floods my sex with liquid warmth.
“Emma.” The soft, deep timbre of his voice vibrates through me, adding to the hypnotic effect as one of his hands leaves my waist to curve around my jaw, the gesture both tender and possessive. Leaning in another inch, he murmurs hoarsely, “Kitten, if you don’t want this, tell me now.”
Yes, tell him. Only my mouth refuses to cooperate, to form the words needed to stop this insanity. Because I do want this. I want it so badly that I ache. I know there are reasons why this is not a good idea, but for the life of me, I can’t remember what they are.
He correctly interprets my silence, and his lips hover next to mine for only a moment longer before pressing against them in a tenderly demanding kiss.
His tongue sweeps over the closed seam of my lips, seeking entrance, and I let him in with a soft moan, my eyes closing and my hands fisting in the lapels of his coat as heated pleasure rockets through my body.
Distantly, I hear a pissed-off meow, but it can’t penetrate the sensual fog enveloping my brain.
The tension is growing in my core, coiling tighter with each skillful caress of his tongue, and my hands slide up his neck to indulge in the feel of his thick, silky hair.
My touch seems to please him, and a groan rumbles low in his throat as he pulls me to my feet and maneuvers us both toward the bed, throwing off his coat and jacket on the way.
There are more outraged meows as the cats jump off the bed, clearing the space for us, and then I’m stretched out on my back, with Marcus over me, his lips devouring mine as his hands roam greedily over my clothed body.
One big hand ventures underneath my sweater, the palm hot and rough on my bare skin, and I shudder with pleasure as his fingers close over my left breast, kneading it through my bra with firm pressure.
His thumb brushes over my peaked nipple, and I arch into his touch, craving more, needing more.
Needing everything.
This must be what it’s like to be swept away by passion, I realize dimly, even as my hands yank at the knot of his expensive tie, desperate to get it off him so I can tear off his shirt and feel his bare chest. I’ve always thought the swept-away bit was just a poetic turn of phrase, a romantic exaggeration.
But that’s precisely how this feels: like an unstoppable wave, a tsunami of sensation over which I have no control.
My entire body is on fire, my nipples taut and aching, my clit throbbing as need coils ever tighter in my core.
I don’t know how I manage to get the tie and shirt off him in this state, but I do, and the heat inside me grows into a conflagration as my hands slide across the broad, muscled planes of his chest and back.
He’s warm and hard all over, his smooth skin roughened only by the sprinkling of coarse hair near his flat nipples and the happy trail running down his ridged stomach.
His abs feel like they’ve been carved from stone, each one delineated so perfectly that I want to slow things down so I can stare at him and drool.
But he’s already pulling off my sweater and too-tight jeans, along with my socks and the one boot, and all thoughts of slowing down evaporate as he buries his hand in my hair and kisses me again, his tongue sweeping into my mouth with fierce hunger as his free hand slides down my body and delves under my soaked panties.
Yes, oh God, yes, right there. I want to scream the words from the rooftops as he unerringly finds my throbbing clit, but all I can manage is a ragged gasp against his lips, my vocal cords locking up along with every muscle in my body.
My eyes squeeze shut, and I arch against him, writhing and panting, my nails digging into his sides as his thumb presses on the swollen bundle of nerves and starts moving in a cruelly teasing circle. I’m close, so very, very close—
“Look at me,” he orders, lifting his head, and my eyes snap open, meeting his gaze as his index finger dips lower, smearing the wetness along the rim of my entrance while his thumb continues its exquisite torment of my clit.
His eyes are dark and hungry as he says hoarsely, “I want to watch you come.”
Yes, oh yes, please. The possessive note in his deep voice adds to the unbearable tension coiling in me, and I hover on the edge for a delicious second before the pressure from his thumb increases and I go over it with a choked scream.
The release is like a bomb going off inside my body, imploding everything in its way. The pleasure pulses violently through my nerve endings, ripples of sensation pounding at every cell. And all the while he watches me, his gaze locked on mine with dark triumph—and his own fiercely growing need.