7. Kiara #2
“You’ve been thinking about this,” he murmurs against my throat.
“Yes.”
He groans. His fingers slide through my wetness, spreading it, exploring me. He parts my folds with two fingers and drags them slowly upward, gathering the slickness, coating his fingertips.
Then he finds my clit.
He circles it slowly. Once. Twice. The pressure is light, teasing. I whimper.
“More,” I manage.
He presses harder. His fingertip rubs directly over the swollen nub, back and forth, back and forth. The sensation shoots through me. My hips buck against his hand.
“That’s it,” he says. “Show me what you need.”
His fingers slide lower. He traces my entrance, circling it, pressing against it without pushing inside. I’m aching. I’m empty. I need him to fill me.
“Jensen. Please.”
He pushes one finger inside me.
I moan. The sound is loud in the quiet suite. He slides his finger in slowly, all the way to the knuckle, then withdraws it just as slowly. The drag of it against my inner walls makes my thighs shake.
“More,” I gasp. “I need more.”
He adds a second finger.
The stretch is perfect. He pushes both fingers deep, then curls them forward, searching for the spot he knows is there. He finds it. He presses against it.
I cry out.
“There,” he says. His voice is rough with satisfaction. “Right there.”
He begins to thrust his fingers in and out, curling them on each stroke to hit that spot. His palm grinds against my clit with every movement. The dual sensation is overwhelming.
“Look at me,” he says.
I open my eyes. His face is inches from mine. His gray eyes are dark with want as he watches me.
“I want to watch you,” he says. “I’ve wanted to watch your face when you come. Don’t you dare hide from me.”
I should be embarrassed. My mouth is open. My breath comes in short gasps. My bare chest heaves.
I’m not embarrassed. I’m too far gone for embarrassment.
He thrusts his fingers faster. Harder. His palm slaps against my clit on each stroke. The wet sounds of his fingers moving inside me fill the room.
“You’re so wet,” he says. “So tight around my fingers. I can feel you squeezing me.”
“Jensen.”
“You’re close. I can feel it.” He curls his fingers and presses hard against that spot inside me. “Come for me, Kiara. I need to see it. I need to watch you fall apart in my hands.”
His thumb finds my clit and circles it fast, pressing hard, while his fingers continue to thrust and curl inside me. The pleasure builds to a peak. I’m right on the edge.
“Let go,” he says. “Give it to me.”
I shatter.
The orgasm rips through me. My inner walls clench around his fingers, pulsing in waves. I cry out, my back arching, my hips grinding down against his hand. My whole body shakes.
He doesn’t stop. He keeps thrusting his fingers, slower now, gentler, drawing out each wave of pleasure. His thumb continues to circle my clit, lighter now, coaxing the aftershocks from my body.
I come again. Smaller, but intense. My walls flutter around his fingers.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “That’s it. Give me all of it.”
The tremors slowly fade. I slump against his chest, boneless. My breath comes in ragged gasps. His fingers are still inside me, and I can feel myself clenching around them with the last echoes of my orgasm.
He withdraws his hand slowly. I whimper at the loss.
“Beautiful,” he says. He presses his lips to my forehead. Then my temple. Then my hair. “So beautiful. Every single time.”
I rest my head against his shoulder. My heart pounds. My thighs are still trembling.
Slowly, the haze fades. My thoughts reassemble themselves. Reality seeps back in.
I’m half naked in Jensen Cole’s lap. His fingers are wet with my arousal. My blouse hangs open. My bra is somewhere on the couch.
I just came apart in his hands.
What have I done?
I push off his lap. My legs are unsteady beneath me. My hands shake as I refasten my bra, button my blouse, straighten my trousers.
“Kiara.” He reaches for me.
“I have to go.”
“Stay.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
Because I have a son. Because that son is your son. Because if I stay, I’ll end up in your bed, and then I’ll end up telling you the truth, and then everything I’ve built will collapse.
“This was a mistake,” I say.
His face shutters. “Don’t say that.”
“It was. This can’t happen again.”
“Kiara.”
“I mean it, Jensen. This is done. We’re done.”
I grab my bag. I head for the door.
“Wait.” His voice is raw. “Please. Can we talk about this?”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
I leave. The door closes behind me. I make it to the elevator before my legs start to shake.
I press the button. The doors open. I step inside and lean against the wall, breathing hard.
What have I done?
Five years of distance, of control, of careful boundaries, and I threw it all away because he kissed me and I couldn’t say no.
The elevator descends. My reflection stares back at me from the brass doors. Flushed cheeks. Swollen lips. The look of a woman who has just been thoroughly undone.
The doors open on the lobby level. I step out, walking fast toward the exit, and then I stop.
The papers.
I left the papers in his suite. Unsigned.
I’ll have to go back. I’ll have to face him again, still wearing the evidence of what we did on my skin.
I press my hand to my forehead and laugh. The sound isn’t amused. The sound is the noise a person makes when they’ve ruined everything and can’t figure out how to undo it.
The papers can wait. Everything can wait. I need air. I need distance. I need to not be in this building for a while.
I leave the hotel and walk home, and the whole way I feel his hands on my skin, his mouth on my throat, his voice telling me to come for him.
I wanted him. I still want him. And that want is going to destroy everything.