Page 48 of I Almost Do

She laughs bitterly. "That would be a nice change."

I glare at her for long seconds. She glares back.

And then her mouth is on mine.

18

Don't Blame Me

Clarissa

He's kissing me back. It's not tentative or sweet or gentle. It's not practiced or controlled, the way he usually kisses me.

He's devouring me with his lips and teeth and tongue. He's pulling out the bobby pins in my updo and tossing them to the floor, then wrapping my hair in a tight fist.

And I give it right back, gripping his hair with both hands and eating at his mouth. I'm on fire. My body aches for him, and everywhere he's touching just reminds me of all the other places he should be touching but isn't yet. I'm starving, literally starving, for James. If he stops, I'll die.

He's wearing the cologne I got him for his birthday. It's clean and woodsy, and there's a hint of his own salt beneath it.

All of it—his taste, his smell, the silk of his hair—makes me feral.

He releases my curls to put his hands on my waist and hike me onto his lap. I end up sitting sideways, his erection shoving against my hip. This dress is too tight for anything else. It has no give all the way to the knee. The design doesn’t even allow me to take full steps when walking, so it sure isn’t conducive to straddling a man in the back seat of a car.

I let go of his hair, and he pulls back to eye me warily, breaths ragged.

I can see that he’s still pissed off. But he’s also desperately turned on.

Well, so am I, James. So am I.

I reach down with both hands to gather the heavy silk skirting and shimmy the thing up until the flounce at the bottom is now around my waist.

Then I straddle James, his cloth-covered erection hot at my center. He wraps his hand around the back of my skull and drags me down to his mouth.

His abdominal muscles clench, and he pushes his hard cock against my center. I grind down, and he makes a low noise in his throat. I can feel his hand working its way up the back of my thigh, and I know the exact second he realizes I’m wearing a thong. His fingers clench convulsively on my butt cheek, pulling and spreading me wide. His fingers play with the ribbon of fabric, tugging and teasing me with it.

He groans as if he’s the one being tormented. Then he’s sliding me back and forth across the hard heat of him with a rhythm of his own.

It’s a little rough. It isn’t nice. He takes small bites, nipping across my shoulder. Then he tongues my neck and earlobe. He’s creating the most delicious pressure against my clitoris. I want to scream. I want to bite and claw. And I want him inside me in a way I don’t even fully understand.

This craving is instinctual. If we existed in a bubble on this planet, had never heard of the existence of sex or any of the mechanics, we would still have arrived right at this moment. Of me knowing James's cock belongs in my pussy.

I am still so mad at him, I could scream.

Oh, I know he didn’t marry me for money. It’s not even a question in my mind.

But he pushed my buttons. So I shoved back at his. I’ll be ashamed of myself for it later. Right now, I’m still too angry to care.

How does he not see that the words he uses keep me his subordinate? Hisward, not his wife.

“She’s not just young—she’s a spoiled little princess. I'd be shocked if he ever lays a finger on her.” Rebecca's words at our wedding reception still irritate me like a pebble in my shoe. I’ve tried to forget that overheard conversation in the restroom. Tried to put it behind me. Rebecca doesn’t know me. But the memory of it prods at my every insecurity regarding James.

I loosen his tie and undo his shirt. I need his skin under my fingers.

I've just yanked his shirttail from his trousers when he grabs my wrist with one hand and forces my hips to stop moving with the other.

"Clarissa," he says. "The car has stopped."

I hear the clunk of a car door closing and know Dean is coming around to usher us out.

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