Chapter Four #2
She strolls into the room and erases my ability to breathe. Tie forgotten. Oxygen irrelevant.
The front. Deep V. A neckline that highlights every inch of her ample cleavage. My gaze drops and my heart damn near stops. Holy fuck, she’s breathtaking.
Navy. The only word my brain can muster. The navy dress skims her waist, glides over her hips, and the slit (holy fucking shit, the slit) climbs high enough that I can see the smooth length of her thigh when she steps forward.
Every red flag in my head is on fire. She’s a goddamn runaway train, and I’m strapped to the tracks.
“That’s…” My voice is gravel. I clear it. “That’s not very practical for filming.”
Practical? The dress is a religious experience, and I said practical.
Slowly, she turns her head.
“For a livestream,” I add, because apparently I enjoy digging my own grave. “Mobility-wise.”
“Thanks for the tip, but I won’t be sprinting through hotel lobbies like you.”
She pivots, giving me her back, and the fabric pulls across the curve of her ass. The slit opens slightly with the movement. My hands ball into fists.
She twists for her zipper.
Misses.
Tries again.
Misses harder.
She exhales through her nose. “Can you—”
I’m across the room in seconds. My fingers find the dip of her waist, and every nerve ending I own lights up.
The zipper pull rests between my fingers.
So does her trust.
My palms burn to slide lower, to trace that curve where the fabric hugs her hip. Would she lean back or slam me into the nearest wall? Honestly, I’m good either way.
“Gala. Promotion. Sea lions,” I mutter, barely audible.
“What?” she asks, glancing over her shoulder.
“Nothing.”
I run the zipper straight up her spine in one clean pull. Done. Hands off. Like a chivalrous gentleman who just aced the “Don’t Be a Creep” final exam.
“Let me make something clear, Hartwell—”
She turns.
Too fast.
Her heel betrays her on the carpet.
There’s a sharp little “oh!” and she tilts sideways.
I do what any responsible, well-intentioned adult does when a woman is falling.
I lunge.
My right hand catches her hip.
Left hand…
Wait!? Where’s my left hand?
It’s… oh no.
My hand has disappeared down the front of her dress.
Oh, fuck, that’s a breast.
A full, warm, soft, bare breast, and my entire palm is just—settled there.
Time stops.
Her eyes snap to mine.
Her heartbeat thumps under my palm.
Or maybe that’s mine trying to exit my chest.
“GET OUT!”
“I’M GOING!”
I pull back, but nothing happens. My sleeve is now one with the fabric. My arm refuses to budge, and the sound that comes out of me is a goat in distress.
“THE CUFFLINK IS STUCK!”
“UNSTICK IT!”
“I’d love to, but your top is holding me hostage! It’s the—the inner thing.”
“The lining, you moron!”
“Why is it so clingy? Is it made of glue?”
“TO KEEP IDIOTS LIKE YOU AWAY! You better move your hand right now.”
I wiggle my wrist.
That was the wrong decision.
My hand slides.
Up.
Down.
Her nipple brushes against my palm.
Up.
Down.
Her breath cuts off sharply, and I feel her nipple harden. My brain whites out.
“Oh my God,” she hisses. “Are you petting me?”
“I am trying to escape, but your dress is a Venus flytrap!”
“It feels like you’re playing connect the dots!”
“This,” I say through clenched teeth, “is why I hate French cuffs.”
“I can’t believe you even know what those are,” she sighs. “Rotate your wrist.”
“You planning to narrate my every move, or can I just do it?”
“ROTATE. LEFT!”
I rotate left—bad move. My knuckle grazes her hardened nipple, and she makes a sound that should come with a warning label. My dick is lighting off fireworks.
Cool it, champ.
“I cannot believe a grown man who owns cufflinks can’t stop cupping my boob!”
“If you were wearing a bra, this wouldn’t be a problem.”
“You can’t wear a bra with this dress, you Neanderthal!”
“Well, you can’t wear me in your dress either, but here we are, Stopwatch.”
Ivy yanks the neckline forward and peers down into the crime scene with the expression of a woman who has left her body entirely.
She grabs my wrist. “Relax your arm.”
Instead (because I am apparently a cave troll), I squeeze.
Hard.
She yelps. “WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?”
“Reflex! You grabbed me!”
“Are you physically incapable of following instructions?!”
“Pretty much.”
She mutters something profane, and her fingers get back to work.
“Oh! Right there,” she breathes, “I can feel it. I’m touching it.”
That sentence should not be said while my fingers are—
MMMMMmmmpphh!
She makes a soft, frustrated noise. A low one. It crawls down my spine, swerves left, and punches me square in the erection… oh hell yeah.
Nope.
Sea lions. Brain, we’re doing facts about sea lions. Go!
Sea lions have sensitive whiskers that detect vibrations in the water.
I am detecting vibrations.
So many vibrations.
“It’s so tight.” She gives a sharp inhale. “I need to grip it harder.”
Sea lion males can weigh up to—
“There.” Her breath catches. “Right there.” Her fingers work faster. “Don’t move, don’t move, I almost—almost—”
—can weigh up to seven hundred—
“Come on,” she pleads. “Come on, come, come—”
SEVEN HUNDRED POUNDS—
“Yes.” A gasp. “Yes, yes.” Her whole body tenses. “YES!”
I have completely lost the thread of the sea lion. All I hear is her voice saying yes. My jaw is clenched so hard I’m going to need dental work.
Her whole body shudders with the effort and then—
CLICK.
“There!”
My hand comes free.
We explode apart like a grenade went off between us.
My eyes go straight to the tight peaks of her nipples straining against the navy fabric. Fuck, they’re begging for my mouth, my hands, my everything.
Her gaze follows, dark and hungry, landing on the obscene ridge of my thick cock tenting my pants. It’s impossible to hide.
I clear my throat, snatch my jacket, and yank my bag off the bed. My legs haul ass to the door like they’ve got a one-way ticket to Anywhere But Here.
“I’ll see you in the ballroom.”
I don’t wait for a response. I power-walk out of the room. Down the hall. Into the elevator. I stab the lobby button and stand stunned.
Jesus.
This event is going to be four hours of sheer hell, stuck working next to her in that dress, my palm still ghost cupping her luscious tit. Firm. Soft. Oh-so-squeezable.
I should’ve let her hit the floor. Chivalry is overrated.