Page 11 of Pride and Privilege

Which was when everything stopped being ridiculous. Roscoe went completely still. He looked down at her hand on his chest, body frozen like a hunting cat, a crease in his brow that asked,What is this?

Pure desperation,she told herself. But heat flooded her, and she could feel her heartbeat in the base of her spine, in the sudden aching warmth between her thighs, so maybe that was a lie… His chest was startlingly solid under her palm, she felt the living beat of his own racing pulse, found herself stepping closer still. Her fingers shifted on the fine cotton of his shirt as his chest rose in a sharp inhale, and then…

Then Roscoe’s hand was on her hip, under her open coat. Roscoe was walking her the two steps backwards to the wall of the lift so she bumped up against it, his body following, chasing into her space, his thigh against hers. One hand stayed on her hip. His other came palm down on the wall by her head, caging her in while holding himself back. He was huge, looming over her like this, and his eyes dipped down, ran the full length of her body, undressing her in both their minds.

But he didn’t kiss her. There was still a crease in his brow, that question still there, hesitation, doubt, even as his gaze ate her alive. She didn’t feel quite lucid as she trailed her hand up his chest, watching from outside her body as she reached the strong line of his neck, the hair at the nape, caramel-soft and brushing against her trembling fingers. But the ache between her thighs grew agonisingly sharp. Maybe she wasn’t outside her body at all, maybe her body was in control… Maybe she had no power against him, blue-grey eyes on hers, and she was just flotsam afterall, fallen into his tide…

His thumb swept over her hip. His head was hanging close to hers, eyes lowered to the hand on her hip. She could see theperfect line of his eyebrows, the waves of his thick, gold-brown hair falling across his brow. She studied his cheekbones, the dark lashes of his eyes, the curve of his lips, a hard but sensual sweep.

Kiss me. Do it. Make this happen.

The smell of his coat and his skin and the cold rain filled the space between them. Did he even want her? This man who could have anything, anyone? Her feet were wet and he was warm and she was about to start shivering, trembling… Maybe she wasn’t good enough for someone like him, too bloody spoilt, rich, golden, perfect—

His voice, low. “Do you know how beautiful you are?” And his slow, dragging gaze lifted once more to her eyes, his look molten, but the words held a note of reverence that took her by surprise. The heat building inside her splintered into something sharper—a warmth with edges that could cut. But this wasn’t real, she reminded herself. This was transactional. A deal being made, a game being played. He probably said that to all the women, all the BG girls he took back to his place, part of his nice-guy charm. Except there was something un-nice in the intensity of his look, a rough hunger, as certain and sure as the hand that moved from the wall, skimmed down the side of her throat, the tips of his fingers brushing down the side of her breast, her waist, until he gripped her other hip, too, holding her there where she leant against the wall, metal cold at her back. And she was burning…

Please.

His fingers slid down to the hem of her skirt, curled underneath it… The movement made the fabric shift up, just a fraction, and the sliding friction of the satin lining against her thigh was almost too much.

Pull it up, pull it up, touch me, touch me—

The lift doors opened.

Roscoe huffed a rueful laugh, standing back. But he took her hand and led her into his flat.

FIVE

He’d known, hadn’t he?Since the first moment he saw her, he had known she was electric. One touch of her hand had him quivering like a virgin schoolboy. Stole his mind, his voice, too, because he could hardly think of a word to say, as though his brain was a hollow bell and she had struck it, every thought drowned out by the ringing.

Some sober, ascetic part of him said this was not a good idea.Fuck that,the rest of his body said. Poppy Fields had always seemed like a good idea. Ever since he first saw her. And she had initiated this. He wasn’t about to say no—wasn’t about to think beyond the next hour or two. Surrender to lust, to touch, to pleasure. Forget all the crap back there in that building, the choking, dismal pressure of it all, the way his father had played him.No—the way he had deluded himself. That’s what stung worst of all. He was supposed to be intelligent. Prided himself on it. And he hadn’t seen…hadn’t let himself see just how naïve he was.

“Knowing you’ve been given the position purely on merit isn’t much comfort.”Those had been his brother’s words, furious at being kept out of the company. And he replied now:No merit, Hugo. Don’t worry, I’m no better than you. I just thought I was.

Poppy followed him into his flat a little wide-eyed. The penthouse. All glass and chrome and fully serviced and wholly soulless, just like the outside of the building. He hated it. But he hardly ever stayed here.

“Drink?” he asked as he took off his coat, took hers.

“No.”

She said it like an invitation. So he set their coats down and accepted it. Gave up pretending to be civilised. It was the little shake of her head that did it, the low light burnishing her hair, the glance she flicked up at him from lowered lashes.

He took her hand and pulled her to him. And fuck. He really shouldn’t. But she stepped closer, and her hand came to rest on his chest again, just as it had in the lift, his heart racing under her fingertips as though it was hers to command. But he watched her face, making sure, because this was sudden, happening fast, and as desperate as he was to have her, it wasn’t why he had invited her up here. He hadn’t expected this at all. But it was Poppy Fields. Maybe he should expect the unexpected.

The hand on his chest slid down slightly, scraped a nail over one of his shirt buttons. Then she hooked her fingertip under the fabric, into the gap, the slight touch of her fingertip on his skin searing.

That was a yes, right?

His hands were on her hips, wanting to move both up and down. Follow the swell to the curve of her backside, slide up to the dip of her waist, her ribs, breasts…

He pulled her closer, but gently, gently, making sure she was willing. Because she seemed shy now, face turned down, eyes fixed on her finger hooked into his shirt.

“Poppy…”

He wasn’t sure why he said it, maybe just so she would look up, let him read her eyes. She flashed him a smile that definitely seemed to say yes, and the finger hooked under his button curled tighter into the fabric and pulled him to her.

Thank fuck…

He moved his hands, following instinct, the warm haze of desire setting his mind drifting elsewhere. He nearly kissed her,wantedto kiss her, but that seemed bizarrely too much, too soon, Poppy Fields a puzzle with a different sort of approach. His fingers dipped into the waistband at the back of her skirt, and he teased her blouse free, untucked it from the narrow, high-waisted skirt—that maddening skirt—maybethatwas why he started here—and finally, finally, he was touching her, his hands circling her waist, hot skin on hot skin, his thumbs stroking up to the bottom of her ribcage as she sucked in a breath.

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