Chapter 54 #2
His mouth finds my inner thigh. Teeth scraping. Tongue soothing.
My head falls back, and I have to brace my hands on the desk to keep from collapsing.
His mouth moves higher, and I stop arguing. He’s not gentle. That’s something I’ve learned about Aric—something I’ve come to crave. When he wants something, he takes it. No hesitation. No half measures. Just focused, relentless intensity that leaves me gasping.
He licks me from entrance to clit in one long, devastating stroke, and my whole body jolts.
His tongue works against me like he has all the time in the world. Like there isn’t a ballroom waiting. Like there aren’t guests arriving. Like the only thing that matters is the taste of me on his lips and the sounds I’m trying desperately to muffle.
“Don’t.” His voice vibrates against my most sensitive flesh. “I want to hear you.”
“Someone could—”
“Let them.”
His fingers join his mouth, pushing inside me, curling just right, and the moan that escapes me is loud enough to echo off the walls.
So much for discretion.
But I’m past caring. Past thinking. Past anything except the pressure building inside me, coiling tighter with every stroke of his tongue, every thrust of his fingers.
“Aric—” His name comes out like a prayer. “I’m—”
“I know.”
He knows my body better than I do now. Knows exactly what rhythm makes me fall apart. Knows exactly how to push me to the edge and keep me there, trembling, desperate.
“Please—”
“Come for me.” It sounds like a command, and my body obeys before my mind can catch up, shattering, clenching, waves of pleasure crashing through me so hard I have to bite my hand to keep from screaming.
He doesn’t stop until I’m shaking. Until the aftershocks have faded. Until I’m boneless on his desk, dignity abandoned, completely and thoroughly undone.
When he rises, his mouth is wet, his eyes are wild, and the evidence of how much this affected him is pressing against the front of his perfectly tailored trousers.
“We really don’t have time,” I whisper.
“I don’t care.”
He frees himself, and then he’s gripping my hips and pulling me to the edge of the desk and—
Oh.
He slides into me in one brutal thrust. My back arches. My nails dig into his shoulders. The stretch is perfect, full, overwhelming, and exactly what I need.
“Look at me.”
I open eyes I didn’t realize I’d closed. He’s watching me with that intensity that still takes my breath away. Like I’m the center of his universe. Like nothing else exists. Like I’m the one thing he craves and the one thing that’ll destroy him.
“You’re mine,” he groans, pulling out slowly and slamming back in.
“I’m yours.”
“Say it again.”
“I’m yours, Aric.”
He stills, just for a beat, his forehead dropping to mine.
“Bare min. Only mine. Si det,” he speaks in his own language, low against my mouth.
“Bare din,” I reply in Norwegian and something in his eyes detonates.
His mouth crashes against mine like he is trying to swallow the word whole, and I pull him closer, wrapping my legs around his waist.
He thrusts into me—hard, deep, and relentless. The desk shudders beneath us, something else crashes to the floor, and neither of us spares it a glance.
“You have no idea what you do to me.”
“Show me.”
“Every time you walk into a room—”
“Harder.”
“Every time you look at me with those eyes—”
“Don’t stop.”
He slams into me so hard the desk scrapes across the floor, and I cry out, and his mouth swallows the sound.
“You’re going to walk into that ballroom,” he growls against my lips, “with my come dripping down your thighs, and no one will know except us.”
The image sends a fresh wave of heat through me.
“Aric—”
“You’re going to smile and host and charm every person in that room, and the whole time you’ll feel me inside you.”
“I’m close—”
“Good.” His pace increases.
We shatter together. His forehead drops to my shoulder. My fingers curl in his hair. I feel him pulsing inside me, feel the warmth of him flooding me, and the sensation triggers another wave of aftershocks that make me clench around him.
When he finally pulls back, there’s something soft in his expression. Something I’m still learning to read.
“We’re going to be late,” I murmur.
“Fifteen minutes.” He presses a kiss to my forehead. “Worth it.”
“My hair is destroyed.”
“It’s perfect.”
“I’m a mess.”
“You’re beautiful.”
“You’re biased.”
“Hopelessly.”
He fixes his pants and helps me off the desk.
Holding my hand, he slowly walks me where my dress pools on the floor.
Then he steps behind me and zips the dress back up the way he took it off.
Slowly. Inch by inch. His mouth is at the back of my neck while his hands trace the line of the silk closing up my spine.
He smooths my hair with hands that were rough five minutes ago and are gentle now. The contrast undoes me every time.
“Ready?” he murmurs in my ear.
“I can feel you dripping down my thighs,” I whisper, turning to him.
His eyes darken again, a flash of that feral hunger returning. “Good. Now every step you take tonight, you’ll feel me.”
I take a breath. I am about to spend an evening pretending I am not soaked through with the man behind me.