Chapter 3 #2
I pulled at his shirt. He let me take it off him and the body underneath it made my mouth go dry.
Lean, cut, ink on his ribs, across one shoulder, the kind of muscle that came from years of hard use.
I put my hands on his chest, felt his stomach tighten under my fingers, and the reaction was so immediate, so visible, that it sent a rush through me that was almost aggressive.
This man wanted me. I could feel it in the tension of his body, the way his hands shook against my skin, the way he looked at me like I was something he'd been wanting for so long the wanting had become part of his infrastructure.
And I wanted him back, fiercely, greedily, with a hunger that had nothing to do with loneliness and everything to do with the specific way this specific man saw me and refused to look away.
He reached for the hem of my shirt. Pulled it up slowly, watching my face, giving me room to stop him. I didn't stop him. I raised my arms and let him pull it over my head and I stood in front of him in my bra and my jeans and I didn't flinch. I didn't cover myself. I let him look.
His eyes moved over me, slow, and the expression on his face was something I'd never seen directed at me before.
Reverence. Pure, undiluted want, the kind that came from a man who'd been memorizing me for months and was now seeing the reality and finding it better than anything he'd imagined.
His gaze traced the curve of my breasts, the dip of my waist, the flare of my hips, and everywhere his eyes went my skin heated like he was touching me with his hands instead of his attention.
"Jesus Christ, Lexie." His voice was low, scraped raw. "You have no idea how much I want you."
"Then show me."
He unhooked my bra. Slid it off my shoulders.
Cupped my breasts in both hands and I sucked in a breath because his palms were rough, calloused, and the friction of them against my nipples made my whole body tighten.
He bent his head, took one into his mouth, and I grabbed the back of his neck and held him there, my head falling back, a sound coming out of me that I didn’t even try to contain.
He was thorough. Patient in a way that was almost cruel, his tongue circling, his teeth grazing, his hand on my other breast, his thumb working my nipple while his mouth worked the other, and I was shaking, my fingers digging into his shoulders, my hips pressing forward against him because I needed more, he was taking his time, and the combination was making me desperate.
"Rook." Half plea, half demand.
He straightened up. Kissed me, deep, filthy, his tongue against mine while his hands went to my jeans.
He undid them and pushed them down my hips, my underwear with them, and then his hand was between my thighs, his fingers slid through me, and we both made a sound at the same time.
I was soaked. When his fingers found my clit and pressed, I jerked against his hand and grabbed the edge of the desk behind me to stay upright.
"Fuck," he breathed against my mouth. "You're so wet for me."
I couldn't answer. His fingers were moving, slow, deliberate circles that were making my thighs shake, and I was gripping the desk with one hand, his shoulder with the other, and my hips were rolling against his hand, chasing the pressure, wanting more of it, wanting everything.
He pushed two fingers inside me and my whole body clenched around him. The sound that came out of me was raw, loud in the small room, and he swore under his breath, curled his fingers, and found the spot that made my vision go white.
"Right there," I gasped. "Fuck, right there, don't stop."
He worked me with his fingers, his thumb on my clit, his mouth on my throat, and I came so hard my knees buckled. He caught me. His free arm around my waist, holding me up while my body pulsed around his fingers. I shook against his chest and the orgasm rolled through me in waves that felt endless.
Before I'd finished shaking, I was pulling at his belt.
I wanted him inside me. I wanted to feel him, all of him, and the urgency of it was something I'd never experienced before, a greed that had nothing polite about it.
He helped, his jeans shoved down, and I got my hand around him.
He was thick, hard, and the groan he made when I touched him was the best sound I'd ever heard.
He lifted me onto the desk. Papers scattered, I didn't care. He stepped between my thighs. I wrapped my legs around his hips, pulled him against me, felt the blunt press of him against my entrance, and my whole body sang with anticipation.
He pushed in. Slow, stretching me, filling me inch by inch, and I gripped his shoulders, watched his face, and the expression on it was something I wanted to keep forever.
His jaw tight, his eyes half-closed, his brow furrowed in concentration, the most controlled man I'd ever met coming apart because of the way I felt around him.
He bottomed out and we both stopped breathing.
“Fuck Rook, I need you now,” I said. My voice didn't sound like mine. "Please."
He pulled back, drove into me, and the desk shuddered underneath us I cried out, dug my nails into his back, and he did it again.
And again. Deep, hard strokes that I felt in my teeth, his hands gripping my hips, my thighs locked around him, the wet, obscene sound of him fucking me filling the room along with my breathing, his breathing, and the creak of the desk.
I couldn't get enough of him. Every thrust drove me higher, the angle perfect, the friction of him inside me making my toes curl and my voice break.
I arched against him, pressing my breasts against his chest, and he wrapped one arm around my lower back, changed the angle, and hit something deep that made me see stars.
"Harder," I said. Because I was done being careful and done being patient and done telling myself I didn't need anything from anyone. I needed this. I needed him, his body, his hands, the way he felt inside me, and I was going to take every second of it.
He gave it to me harder. His hips snapping against mine, the desk scraping across the floor, his hand fisting in my hair, tilting my head back so he could put his mouth on my throat.
I was close again, the pressure building fast, my body tightening around him, and when he reached between us and pressed his thumb against my clit I shattered.
I came hard with my nails scraping down his shoulders and my body clenching around him in waves that pulled him over the edge with me. He buried himself deep and came hard, his forehead against my shoulder, his hips grinding, a ragged sound torn out of him that vibrated through my body.
We stayed like that. Connected, and breathing hard. The desk was a mess, my legs still wrapped around him, and his arms still holding me. The only sound in the room was the two of us trying to remember how air worked.
He lifted his head. Looked at me. And the thing in his eyes wasn't the heat from before, though that was still there. It was something quieter. Something that said he'd been waiting for this without knowing he was waiting, and now that it had happened he was recalculating every plan he'd ever made.
I touched his face. His jaw, rough, and warm under my fingertips.
"Stay tonight," I said. Soft, certain. A woman who had spent four years sleeping alone in a building she loved and a life she'd built, asking someone to be in it with her for the first time.
"I'm not going anywhere," he said.
He meant it. I could hear it in his voice, the weight of it, the vow underneath the words. This was a man who knew what a promise cost and made them anyway.
We got dressed. Slowly, in the stillness, handing each other clothes. He picked up the papers that had scattered off the desk, stacked them without looking at them, and I laughed, a real laugh, surprising and warm. He looked up at the sound of it with an expression that undid me all over again.
I turned off the lights, and locked up because for the first time in a long time, I was taking the night off. Tonight his bike was still in the lot, because he wasn’t leaving this time.