Page 54 of Pride and Privilege

“Think of the women, Roscoe. Do it for them.”

“I’m only thinking about one.”

Her breath hitched. Or maybe it was her heart. Something inside her chest wentthumpanyway.

“You wanted to know what average people do,” she said, words made breathless by the tension squeezing her throat. “This is what they do. Go out, have a drink, kiss someone.”

“Someone they shouldn’t.”

“They make bad choices. Buy fried chicken. Do things just because they want to. They’re not perfect.”

“I’m very far from perfect.”

“I know.”

He looked at her, smart enough to know what she meant. It wasn’t an insult. It was permission to be just him. Roscoe. Tarnished not golden, just an average man, setting down the crown that weighed heavy on his head. At least for one night.

“Far from perfect,” she said, letting a smile curl the corner of her mouth. She had no courage left. This was pure desperation. “I mean…we definitely need to work on that thing you do with your tongue.”

His eyes didn’t turn any less serious, but a wicked challenge began to glimmer there. His gaze dropped to her mouth, swept down her body then back up. “I could show you what else I do with my tongue.”

“Is it terrible?”

“Despicable.”

He moved from the coffee table and knelt on the ground before her while her heart hammered. Slowly, in a moment frozen in time, he put his hands on her bare knees, his touch searingly hot on her skin. She was in her grey pencil skirt, couldn’t shift her legs apart, not unless he pushed the fabric up… But he didn’t move, merely watched his thumb stroke over the inside of her knee as she sat burning, pulse pounding. “If we do this,” he began. “If we start this, everything changes. At work, here—”

“No.”

“I’m your boss, this isn’t appropriate…”

“It’s a lesson,” she said. “It’s what I’m giving you back.”

It was nonsense, of course, they both knew that. Just a joke, stretched, distorted, made into an excuse to bridge the last lingering gap between what they both knew they ought to do and what they both wanted.

Roscoe nodded. Once. Twice. Then he moved his hands to her hips and pulled her to the edge of the sofa. He paused for the briefest moment, then his hands were running down her thighs to the hem of her skirt, pushing it up to her hips so her legs could spread and wrap around his body as he pulled her to him, one hand slipping into her hair, bringing her mouth to his—then holding her there, a millimetre away.

His muscled waist was pressed against her core, his broad chest was inches from hers, she could feel the heat of him through his cotton shirt. One of his strong hands was wound into her hair, the other clamped on her lower back, holding her against him. She heard the breath he took, felt the warmth of it on her lips. “We shouldn’t…” he murmured.

“Kiss me,” she breathed. “Please.”

He gave a tortured groan, then he closed that last aching gap and his lips met hers.

She gasped at that first contact, wound so tight that the touch of his lips ran over her body like fire. She would have kissed him back, feverish, desperate, but he was in control, the hand wrapped into her hair holding her still. His lips were firm, their movement deliberate. His tongue slid into her mouth, swept over hers like it had before. Again, she moaned.

“Is that the thing, Poppy?” he breathed, his voice a wicked husk. He didn’t wait for an answer, but kissed her again and again, deep and filthy, then moved to her neck, the pressure of his hand in her hair tilting her head back, baring her throat to his mouth.

It shouldn’t have felt so good, to let him take so much control, but she sank blissfully into surrender as his fingers moved toher blouse, deftly undoing the buttons and pushing it from her shoulders. He undid the catch at the back of her bra with one hand, and she felt his smile against her skin, his mouth brushing her collarbone. “Is this what I need to practise? So clumsy…”

And her bra was off, her blouse off, air cool on her heated skin as his mouth moved to her breast. She arched back with a moan as he licked the hard tip of her nipple, a cascade of sensation flooding her core. He kissed, licked, sucked, his other hand cupping her other breast, his thumb working that nipple, too, as she collapsed backwards onto the sofa, drawing him down with her.

It was too much. The sensation of hand and mouth on those sensitive tips was too much… But he moved over her, knee pressing into the sofa at her hip as he kissed her mouth again, the warmth of him soft and sweet, but coaxing her down deeper, sinking her into another layer of dazed bliss.

She weaved her fingers into the silk of his hair, stroked them over the crisp cotton encasing his broad shoulders, exulting in the size, the strength of him over her. Her hands moved down, over his ribs, his waist, found the belt of his suit-trousers… But he shifted down, out of reach, kneeling on the floor before her.

He pushed her skirt to her waist, hooked his fingers into her underwear.

“Is this another terrible tongue thing?” she said, her voice a breathless wreck.

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