Page 35 of Just The Way You Aren't

I smile, hearing the raw need in his usually controlled voice. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Damien Langley's 'place'makes Versailles look like a fixer-upper. The elegant townhouse is the kind of place that screams 'I pay more in monthly property taxes than you make in a year,' whichshouldbe intimidating. But the second the door closes behind us, all thoughts of how out of place I feel in the opulent, marble-floored entryway vanish.

He presses me against the carved wood, the coolness at my back a stark contrast to the sudden inferno ignited as his hand slides under my dress and up my bare thigh.

His lips devour mine in a kiss that's nothing short of pure, primal lust. "I have been imagining those legs wrapped around me all night," he growls, his voice rough against my ear, before trailing kisses down my neck.

Something shifts inside me—maybe it's the champagne, or the way he looks at me. Not just now, when his eyes are devouring me like dessert, but every time we’re together. As if I’m the only woman he sees. The only one he wants.

He pulls me roughly against him, and for a moment, I feelhim hesitate, his hands flexing as if he can't quite believe I'm really here, reallythisinto him.

Hell, I can’t quite believe I’m really here, either. As for being into him? Lordy, I couldn’t be more so. The sad fact is, I was into Damien even when I only considered him a stiff, grumpy billionaire CEO. In our short time together I’ve seen a whole new side of him—a thoughtful, compassionate side of him that’s made me curious to know more. But the side of Damien I’m witnessing now is a revelation.

Sexy. Commanding. Hot as fucking sin.

And I can’t get enough.

Whatever it is that’s breaking loose inside me, right now, I'm suddenly tired of being the good girl who always follows someone else's lead.

I take his face in my hands and kiss him, giving his lower lip a soft little nip as I draw away. Before he can react, I've spun us around so he's the one with his back against the door.

The surprise on his face is priceless—his eyes wide, lips parted. Clearly, Damien Langley isn't used to surrendering control. The thought sends a thrill through me.

"What are you—" he starts, but I silence him with my mouth again, pressing my body against his as my hands begin working on his shirt buttons.

"You're not the only one with an imagination," I murmur against his lips, indulging in this wilder side of me. A side of me that I didn’t even know existed until I met him. I slide my hands inside his half-open shirt, finally touching the muscles I've been imagining for the past week. God, he's firm—all smooth skin over hard planes of sinew and strength.

His breath hitches as my fingers trace down to his belt. "Willow..."

"Problem?" I ask, glancing up with what I hope is a sultrylook, though I'm pretty sure I'm grinning like the cat who got the canary.

"No," he says, his voice strained. "No problem at all."

I continue my exploration, enjoying the small sounds he makes as I trail my fingernails lightly down his chest. When I reach his belt, I work it open with little hesitation, though my fingers aren't quite as steady as I'd like them to be.

He groans when my hand brushes against the hard length of him through his pants. "Fuck. You're killing me."

"That's the idea," I say, mimicking his usual dry tone, which earns me a breathless laugh that transforms into a groan when I cup him through the fabric. His hard length feels like a column of steel against my palm and fingers. I moan a little, fighting a ravenous need to have him inside me. As in, now.

His hands, which have been remarkably restrained until now, suddenly spring into action. They slide up my thighs, bunching my dress at my hips. "I need to touch you," he says, voice rough.

"I thought you'd never ask." I guide one of his hands between my legs, where I'm already wet for him.

He makes a sound that's almost a growl when his fingers find me through my panties. “Christ, Willow.”

He strokes me, brushing his touch over my clit and wringing a helpless groan from my mouth. No longer satisfied with caressing me over my panties, he slips his hand inside. His fingertips cleave into my folds and his breath turns ragged and shallow as he plays with my pussy.

The pressure builds low in my belly, a coiling tension that tightens with each expert stroke. When he adds his fingers, curling them inside me while his touch circles my clit, I shatter.

I hope to hell he’s sent his staff home for the night. My cryechoes in the cavernous foyer as my orgasm washes over me in waves, my legs trembling so badly I might have collapsed if not for his steadying hand on my hip.

I grab his shoulders to steady myself, but I’m wobbly on my high heels. As I move, I accidentally send a small crystal figurine on a nearby table crashing to the floor.

We both freeze, then look at each other.

"Was that valuable?" I whisper, mortified.

He glances at the fallen sculpture. "Probably."

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