Page 9 of The Pucking Date
He doesn’t blink. Just lifts our joined hands…and presses eight.
“Fifth floor,” I repeat.
“You really think I’ll let you walk away?”
I go still, my heart thundering. “That’s…presumptuous,” I manage.
“Mmhmm,” he hums, not even bothering with a response, the doors closing behind us. He moves in slow, backing me against the wall of the elevator. One hand curves around my waist, the other braces beside my head. The heat radiating off him wrecks my breathing.
My hands fist in his jacket. “You don’t get to just decide.”
He dips his head, voice rough at my ear. “I decided the second I saw you for the first time. It’s just that you’re finally saying yes.”
He slides his thumb along my cheekbone, stroking my skin, memorizing the feel of me. My breath stutters. He lingers there. Then draws it down, tracing the curve of my jaw, brushing the corner of my mouth, dragging it lightly beneath my chin.
My eyes flutter. My knees buckle. But he doesn’t move in. Doesn’t kiss me. He just watches with that devastating calm, like he has all the time in the world to ruin me.
His hand slides to the base of my neck, fisting my hair, pulling just enough to tip my head back. To hold me exactly where he wants me. And then, in a voice that’s more smoke than sound—low, Southern, and utterly lethal—he murmurs, “Ask for it.”
That undoes me.
All of it—the closeness, the fire, the maddening restraint. The way he holds my body like it’s already his but won’t take a damn thing until I offer it.
His thumb brushes just beneath my bottom lip, slow and rough, his grip tightening slightly at my scalp.
“Ask,” he says again, slower this time. “Say it, darlin’.”
I can’t breathe. I can barely think. And maybe that’s why I give in completely. A whisper. Wrecked. “Kiss me.”
He holds me there, mouth inches from mine, eyes locked, savoring the sound of my surrender. Letting it echo. Letting it settle in my bones.
And then…
He crashes into me.
There’s nothing slow about it. No tenderness. No hesitation. Just teeth, tongue, want.
His mouth claiming mine, starved. And it’s not tentative. Not teasing. It’s possession in motion—deep, devastating. Showing me he’s been waiting for this moment and he’s going to draw out every second.
His thigh slides between mine. Hands everywhere—jaw, waist, tangled in my hair. My hands fist in his shirt, dragging him closer, needing more, needing all of it.
His grip stays tight in my hair, guiding, commanding.
The elevator dings softly. For a heartbeat, neither of us moves. Then he extends his hand, not grabbing, but offering. A choice. I take it, and he leads me down the hall, each step bringing me closer to surrender.
His keycard clicks. The door swings open. Inside, it’s dark and quiet and pulsing with tension. Slowly, he tips my chin up with one knuckle, looks at me like I’m already bare.
“You want me?” he asks, voice all velvet and unshakable control.
It’s not a taunt. It’s a gift. And it breaks something open in me.
I nod. Swallow hard. “I do. Desperately.”
He smirks because he already knew. Kisses me again, deeper now. Slower. One hand under my blouse, the other fisting my hair, holding me there while he tastes me.
“You’ve been dancing around this for months,” he murmurs. “Pullin’ back. Temptin’ me. Saying no while lookin’ at me like you’re saying yes.” His voice darkens, thick with everything he’s been holding back. “I’ve been waking up hard every damn morning, thinkin’ about you. Wantin’ you so bad it hurts. Burning’ up my sheets night after night, my cock aching and hard.”
My fingers tangle in his shirt, yanking it up, needing to feel skin.
