Chapter 17 #2
My cock, already half-interested, goes fully rigid in my slacks. I'm grateful I'm sitting behind a desk.
"With what?" I grunt.
"I can't reach the zipper on my dress." She turns around, showing me the back of the robe. "Wait, I'm still in the robe. But when I put the dress on, I won't be able to reach the zipper. So I'm asking preemptively."
"You're asking me to zip up your dress."
"Yes."
"While you're currently wearing a bathrobe."
And nothing else, apparently. Because I can see the outline of her body through the thin fabric, backlit by the lamp in her room. The curve of her waist. The flare of her hips. The long line of her bare legs.
"I'm asking in advance so it's not weird later."
"Harper."
"What?"
"It's going to be weird regardless."
She turns back around, and I can see the exact moment she realizes what she's asking, what she's wearing. How I'm looking at her.
Her cheeks flush deeper pink, not just from the shower now, but from awareness.
"Oh. Right. Because—"
"Because I'll be touching you. While you're in a dress. After spending the entire plane ride with you in my lap." I stand slowly, giving myself time to adjust my suit jacket to hide the evidence of my arousal. "After imagining you in the shower for the last twenty minutes."
The blush on her pretty face deepens. "You were imagining me in the shower?"
"Vividly."
"That's—What were you imagining?"
I cross to her slowly, watching her eyes widen as I approach. "Do you really want to know?"
"I asked, didn't I?"
I stop in front of her, close enough to smell her soap, to see the water droplets still clinging to her collarbone. "I was imagining water running down your body. The way you'd look with your head tilted back. The sounds you'd make."
Her breathing has changed—faster, shallower.
"That's very detailed," she whispers.
"I'm a detailed person."
The robe has loosened slightly at her waist, the neckline gaping wider, and I can see more now—the slope of her breasts, the valley between them. If I leaned down just slightly, I could put my mouth there, could taste the water still beading on her skin.
"Harper," I say, my voice grittier now "You should go get dressed."
"Why?"
"Because if you don't, I'm going to do something that violates every boundary we set."
"Like what?"
“Like untying that robe. Spreading it wide so I can look at every inch of you.
Running my hands over your breasts, thumbing your nipples until they're hard.
Gripping your hips, pulling you against me so you can feel exactly what you do to me.
Sliding my hand between your thighs to discover if you're as turned on as I am.
The way I've been wanting to touch you since you walked onto that plane this morning. "
She shivers, and it's not from cold. "We have dinner."
"I don't give a fuck about dinner."
"Richard Francis is expecting us."
"Let him wait." I reach up, brushing a damp strand of hair away from her face. My fingers trail down her neck, and she tilts her head back, giving me access. "I'm more interested in what's happening right here."
"We said we'd talk,” she breathes. “After the event. We said—"
"I'm tired of talking, Harper. I'm tired of pretending this is just an arrangement. That what I feel when I look at you is professional courtesy."
My hand slides down to her collarbone, tracing the line of water still glistening there. Her skin is warm, soft, and when I press my thumb into the hollow of her throat, I can feel her pulse racing.
"What do you feel?" she asks.
"Want. Need. The kind that makes me stupid. Stupid enough to risk everything just to taste you again."
Her warm hazel eyes are a liquid fire now, pupils swallowing up each golden iris. Her robe has loosened even more, and I can see the curve of her teardrop-shaped breasts, the shadow of her dusky pink nipples beneath the white fabric.
And I know I should step back, should give her space, should remember that crossing this line may change everything.
But I don't step back. Instead, I slide my hand lower, fingers tracing the neckline of the robe where it cuts across her chest.
"Tell me to walk away, Harper,” I say quietly.
"I can't."
"Tell me you don't want this."
"I can't do that either."
"Then what can you tell me?" I ask, my fingers still tracing the edge of her robe.
"I can tell you—I can tell you that if you don't stop touching me like that, we're never making it to dinner."
I slide my hand into her damp hair, tilting her head back, and kiss her the way I've been wanting to since she walked through that door in nothing but terry cloth and good intentions.
She makes a sound against my mouth, a low whimper that makes my pulse thrum, her hands fisting tighter into my shirt. The robe loosens further at her waist, the belt coming undone, as my hand slides from her hair down her neck, over her shoulder, giving way to bare skin.
I break the kiss just long enough to look down.
The robe is barely hanging on now, held together only by where our bodies are pressed together. One open side exposes the sight of Harper’s pale skin still flushed from the shower, along with the curve of her waist, and the flare of her hip.
And I’m instantly harder than I’ve ever been in my entire life.
"Jesus, Harper," I breathe.
She looks down, sees what I'm seeing, and her eyes enlarge to the size of moons. She reaches for robe, and I catch her wrist with my fingers.
"Don't." My voice drops to that register I use in boardrooms when I need immediate compliance. "Don't you dare cover yourself."
“The robe—“
"Hands down, sweetheart." I guide her wrist back to her side. "I want to look at my wife."
Her breathing stutters at the possessive claim, and I watch color flood her cheeks, spread down her throat, across her chest.
"That's it," I murmur, my free hand flattening on her bare waist, holding the robe open. "Let me see you."
My hand slides up her ribcage, deliberate and slow, giving her time to stop me. She doesn't. "You know what I want to do right now?"
"What?"
"I want to push this robe off your shoulders and watch it fall to the floor.
I want to back you up against that wall and get my hands on every inch of skin you've been hiding from me.
" My thumb brushes the underside of her pillowy breast, and she gasps.
"I want to find out if you're as soft everywhere as you are here. "
"We can't—your acquisition—"
"Harper." I tilt her chin up, forcing her to meet my eyes.
"I built a billion-dollar company from nothing.
I've survived board coups, hostile takeovers, and more betrayal than I know what to do with.
I can handle one delayed dinner." My thumb traces her bottom lip.
"What I can't handle is one more second of pretending I don't want to devour you. "
She shivers, and I can see her pulse hammering in her throat.
"But here's what's going to happen," I rasp, ignoring the stirring in my slacks.
"You're going to go get dressed. You're going to put on that lavender dress that's going to drive me insane all through dinner.
And you're going to sit across from me while I make small talk with Richard Francis and think about nothing except getting you back here. "
"Victor—"
"And when we get back, when you've told me whatever problem you’re dealing with, I’m going to strip you out of that dress slowly.
" I lean down, my mouth against her ear.
"Then I'm going to lay you out on that bed and map every inch of your body with my hands, my mouth, my tongue.
I'm going to find out what makes you gasp.
What makes those pretty thighs shake. What makes you say my name. "
Her hands come up to grip my shoulders, nails digging in.
"I'm going to taste you, Harper. Everywhere." My hand slides down to her hip, gripping hard enough to leave marks. "Until the only name you remember is mine. Until you're so full of me, so wrecked by me, that you can't imagine letting anyone else touch you."
She's barely breathing now, her whole body trembling against mine.
"And the best part?" I pull back to look at her face—her hazel eyes hooded, pink lips puffy and parted.
"I'm going to do it again. And again. All night if you let me. Because I’ve spent too many days of wanting you, watching you walk around my apartment in those little sleep shorts, of listening to you hum while you cook—" My voice roughens.
"I have a lot of lost time to make up for, sweetheart. "
My hand slides up to palm one gorgeous tit, my thumb circling her tightened nipple, my touch gentling even as my cock strains against my slacks, pressed against her stomach so she can feel exactly what she does to me.
“We don’t have to hide this anymore, Harper. And you sure as hell don’t need to keep ducking from me by jumping into supply closets every time I walk down the StreamEats halls.”
That pulls a breathless laugh from her, and something in my chest settles.
This. This is what I want. Her laughter. Her trust. Her surrender.
All of it.
All of her.
"So," I start again, stepping back and pulling the robe closed around her.
"You're going to get dressed. I'm going to get myself under control, which is going to take significantly longer than it should.
" I exhale hard, as if the mere act will make my erection subside.
"And we're going to go to this dinner like the professionals we are.”
"And after?" Her voice is barely a whisper now.
"After, we talk. You tell me whatever it is you're afraid to tell me." I cup her face with both hands. "And then I show you exactly what you mean to me. With my hands, my mouth, my cock. Until there's no doubt in your mind that you're mine."
The vulnerability in that last part costs me, and I can see her recognize it.
"Victor." She rises up on her toes, pressing a soft kiss to my mouth. "I'm already yours. That's what terrifies me."
"Then let me terrify you properly." I smile against her lips. "With multiple orgasms and zero regrets."
She laughs, a soft raspy sound that shoots straight to my groin. "You're ridiculous."
"I'm determined. There's a difference." I turn her toward her room, swatting her ass lightly through the robe. "Now go. Before I change my mind and we don't make it to dinner at all."
Clutching the robe closed, she spins on her bare heel, practically fleeing.
Then she's gone, closing the connecting door behind her, and in the aftermath, I stand there in my partially buttoned shirt, fully hard and in serious trouble.
Because Harper Beaumont isn't just getting under my skin.
She's burrowing into my chest cavity and making a home there.
And I'm not even angry about it.
I button my shirt, straighten my tie, and prepare for battle.
Tonight, I close the acquisition.
And then I claim my wife—professional arrangements and boundaries be damned.