42. Chapter 42 #2
“Boss,” she whispers, her voice soft, aching.
She arches her back, and I reach behind her, my fingers fumbling a little with how badly I want this, how badly I want her.
I unhook the clasp and ease the straps down her shoulders, slow enough to savor the moment.
When her bra falls away, my breath catches.
Her breasts are perfect—soft, full, her nipples already peaked, waiting. And I’m so fucking hungry for her. But still, I warn myself not to lose my head.
I return to her mouth, slower now, my lips trailing a path from her mouth to her jaw, her neck, then down to her collarbone.
“I don’t understand why you touch me like you do,” she breathes, eyes closed, cheeks flushed, lips parted in that way that makes me forget how to breathe.
“Because you deserve to be loved right, Skye,” I murmur, kissing across the top of her breast. “You’re so damn soft. You should be touched softly,” I whisper, inching lower. “Your body should be worshiped.”
When I reach her nipple, I kiss it like I need it to survive. Lick and suck like it’s my penance. “I’d never want to hurt you,” I groan, savoring the way her chest lifts to meet my mouth.
I’ll take my damn time. Hours. Days, if she'd let me. I want her wrung out with pleasure, completely undone, because I know—deep in my gut—that Archer doesn’t touch her like this.
I can’t make her leave him. I wouldn’t even try. I can’t offer her the things he can—not the cars or the dinners or the stable life. But I would love her better. Hell, I already do.
And if all I get is a single stolen moment with her, so be it. I’d rather have scraps of her than nothing at all.
My hands and mouth trace every inch of her, alternating between her breasts, licking and kissing and nipping, watching her squirm beneath me. I trail down her stomach, to her belly button, to the tender skin just above the waistband of her jeans.
Her fingers slide into my hair, and her body—fuck, her body—responds to every touch like it’s starved for kindness, like she’s been waiting for me to show her she’s worthy of this.
And show her I will.
Even if it kills me.
Her hips move restlessly, already begging for more, and I haven’t even touched her there yet.
She pulls at my shirt and I yank it off me, tossing it to the floor beside hers. I need to feel her bare skin against mine. I press my chest to hers and kiss her deeply, groaning when her soft breasts flatten against me. Her hands grip my shoulder blades, pulling me closer.
Then she wraps her legs around me. Grinds against me, against my cock straining in my jeans. And fuck, I’m aching, fucking throbbing for her.
My whole world narrows down to this moment.
This bed.
I can’t think. Can’t breathe.
There’s only Skye.
I sit up, needing more of her. She pouts, lips parted, eyes dazed, and that look she gives me—all heat and need and want—makes something in me snap.
I reach for the button of her jeans, but there’s no slow, teasing bullshit now. Not when her hips lift so eagerly and her breath catches just from the brush of my knuckles.
She wants more.
So I give it to her.
I make quick work of her jeans, tugging them down her legs and off, then strip her panties the same way.
God, I could cry with how perfect she is.
Every part of her.
We’re barely breathing, eyes locked on each other. Her lips are parted, pink and swollen.
There’s nothing rational left in me. Only this pulsing, desperate hunger to feel her, to please her, to watch her fall apart again and again under my hands and mouth and body.
I kneel between her legs, tug her thighs apart, and pause long enough to check her face, her body, the way her hips cant up toward me like a silent plea.
That’s all the answer I need.
I press a kiss to the inside of her thigh first. Teasing, yeah, but also to give her a moment to stop me if she doesn’t want this.
She glides a hand through my hair instead, fingers threading through the strands.
So I lower my mouth, then sweep the flat of my tongue over her sensitive clit.
Just once.
It’s just a taste, but Skye gasps, lifting her hips, seeking more.
The groan that leaves my chest is involuntary. She tastes like warm skin and sunshine, smells like everything good in this fucked-up world.
I do it again—one languid stroke of my tongue, and, god, she’s so responsive. So fucking wet and ready for me.
I go back for more, tongue stroking her slick flesh, eliciting the most intoxicating little whimpers and moans from her mouth. Again. And again.
Her taste ruins me. She’s sweet and salty and addictive. I could nourish myself with it.
Her thighs open wider. I hook my arms under them, pull her in closer, and press my face to her, inhaling deeply. Her scent makes my brain short-circuit. My vision slips out of focus. It’s all instinct now. Her pleasure is the only thing that matters.
I zero in on her clit, circling my tongue around it slowly, gently, continuing to draw needy sounds from her chest that make my cock throb against the confines of my jeans. Then I suck—light at first, then deeper—pulling her into my mouth, flicking my tongue in short, focused strokes.
She cries out, hips rolling with purpose, chasing the friction.
“Boss.”
My name comes in broken gasps. No one’s ever said my name like that. Like it’s oxygen, and sustenance, and all the things she needs to survive.
I slide one hand up to her breast, thumb brushing over her nipple, while I spread her wider with the other so I can devour more of her, taste her arousal spilling over my lips.
“Fuck.” I can feel how close she is, her thighs trembling, her breathing turning ragged. I glide my tongue back to her clit—swollen with need—and slide a finger inside her.
She clenches around me, desperate moans tearing from her mouth. It’s the sweetest sound I’ve ever heard—Skye Emory Monroe unraveling beneath my hands.
“Don’t stop,” she gasps, eyes squeezed shut, her body trembling. “I think… oh God—”
Her hand fists in my hair, tugging hard at the roots, her hips chasing me like she doesn’t know whether to run from the feeling or hold on to it. And then she breaks.
Her whole body goes taut before shuddering against me, wave after wave stealing every breath from her lungs. I don’t stop tasting her. I couldn’t if I tried, too caught up in the wonder of her, in the privilege of being trusted with a moment this vulnerable.
“You’re so beautiful like this,” I moan, my need for her reaching a fever pitch.
Only when the tremors begin to soften do I ease the pressure, staying close, unwilling to let go of the way she feels just yet.
God, I love doing this to her. She’s the most beautiful fucking thing I’ve ever seen.
Her eyes flutter open—glassy, pupils blown—her breath still coming in pants.
If this is all I’ll ever get to have with her, I’d still be happier than I could’ve ever imagined.
But Skye reaches for the waistband of my jeans, unbuttoning them with hands that are decidedly more desperate than steady. I brace myself over her with one arm and work my jeans down my hips, my gaze glued to Skye’s lips as they tremble with anticipation.
Fuck, I—
Storm sirens ring out, the sound cutting through the room—the moment—like a gunshot.
Skye freezes.
So do I, my hand and both of hers still hooked into the waistband of my jeans.
No.
Not now.
It rings again.
Skye’s face contorts with pain or shame—maybe both—while my jaw tightens.
Another ring.
I sit back on my heels, giving Skye space to move out from underneath me. She touches a finger to her lips and throws me a look that somehow says both I’m sorry and please be quiet at the same time. Then she reaches for her phone on the floor.