Page 23 of Guarded Hearts
“I can’t stop thinking about you,” I admitted.
He righted himself, uncrossed his arms, and shoved them into his pockets, but he still wouldn’t meet my gaze.
“I’m just going to word vomit for a minute, okay? Total verbal diarrhea and then hopefully, I can move past whatever this is. ’Cause once you know what I’ve been thinking, you’re going to understand I’m batshit crazy. The kind of crazy movies are written about.” I shouldn’t be saying anything to him—avoid him, remain professional. I’d signed a contract with a clause forbidding what I was about to tell him, what I was maybe hoping might come from being honest.
Getting fired for a man would up my level of stupidity astronomically. The alcohol sloshing around in my stomach had loosened my lips too much.
He glanced up at me but still didn’t speak, a frown creasing his forehead. He definitely had the strong, silent thing down to a T. Since I wasn’t going to get anything from him in return, I might as well spill it all.
Tomorrow, I’d be mortally embarrassed, and our first dancing session would be awful, but at least all this tension inside would be gone. Maybe we’d even laugh about it? My little crush.
“I think about you all the time.” I held up a finger. “More specifically, I think about havingsexwith you all the time. All. The. Time. Constantly. I’m like a guy. Maybe you think about having sex with some woman who isn’t me all the time. The feelings I have for you aren’t mutual. I get it. And I’m sorry. But I can’t seem to keep them down—like, I don’t know what—” I hadn’t been paying attention. I’d been trying hard not to look at him, pacing the room, so when I glanced up and saw him in front of me, I stopped mid-sentence. “Too much? When I’m sober, this is going—”
The intensity on his face stopped me cold.
His hands eased along my cheeks, tender, kind, and he gazed down at me. “If you’re crazy, I’m crazy too.” Then he kissed me, a tangle oflips, tongue, teeth, and desperation, as though every encounter, every repressed moment was being poured into this one.
I clutched his shoulders in surprise and then slid my arms around his neck, curving into him. One of his hands dug into my hair while the other skimmed down my body to cup my ass, pressing so close I could feel his erection through our clothes.
If he turned me down again after initiating this kiss, I would cry. Or scream. Or scream and cry. Did I dare to break the kiss? Ask him? Take another chance?
Instead, I pressed one of my hands against the front of his jeans and ran my fingers along the hard length of him. Both of his hands cupped my butt, lifted me up, and carried me across the room. On the edge of the desk, he deposited me, but I locked my legs around him, keeping him near.
Space would give him time to think, and I didn’t want thinking. I wanted action. My core throbbed and ached with unfulfilled desire. Weeks of foreplay had built to this—the two of us, an empty desk in a storage room, enough fire to heat the room.
His hand moved along my inner thigh under my skirt while we kissed, and I trembled with anticipation.
Yes. Yes. Touch me.
Any words might make him reconsider, might put this to a stop. I kept my lips busy with his to avoid speaking. I tugged on the hem of his shirt, and he pulled it over his head in one swift movement. My top and bra came off next, my nipples puckering in the cool air. Then his hot mouth covered one of my breasts, warming, teasing and taunting the nipple while his fingers peeled back my underwear and stroked inside me. I clung to him and gasped when his teeth grazed my nipple, desireshooting down to my core. His thumb began circling my clit, the pressure exquisite.
My memory hadn’t done him justice.Rough hands.Soft lips. Oh, yes.
He murmured something in Russian and raised his head. A question, but I didn’t know what. Asking what he’d said would ruin everything. This felt good. So, so good.
“Don’t stop,” I whispered. “Just don’t stop.” I dug my hands into his hair and dragged him back up to my mouth. The pressure was building inside, delicious, addictive. I tugged on the button of his jeans, and with his free hand, he helped me to shed his pants. Once he was released, I gripped his length and stroked him, loving the silky feel of his skin.
More Russian words I didn’t understand spilled out of his mouth. But the tone was clear—turned on, tortured, so fucking sexy. His thumb and fingers were working magic, and I was in danger of losing my last thread of sanity. “I’m so close. I want you inside me.”
His hand circling my clit slowed, and I wanted to claw at him in frustration. Seriously, if he stopped now, I’d never forgive him.
His forehead connected with mine, but his eyes were closed. He looked like a man trying to rein it in.
Oh, hell no. No, no, no.
“Please,” I whimpered. “Don’t stop. I want this. Don’t stop.”
He kissed me, wrapped his arms around me, and cradled me on the desk. “Protection,” he murmured.
“Oh.” I breathed a huge sigh of relief and fumbled blindly for the purse I’d put on the desk when we’d come in. “My purse.” I wanted to say we were good without it, but I didn’t figure he’d let himself get swept away twice.
He passed my clutch, and I opened it and produced a condom. “Ta-da!” I grinned, but instead of a happy or relieved expression in return, he scanned my face, emotions I couldn’t process warring on his face.
Whatever he was thinking, I didn’t like it. I tapped the side of his head. “Stop thinking. Start fucking.”
A hint of a smile touched his lips, and he palmed the condom and kissed me, his shaft sliding along my folds, brushing against my clit as he moved against me.
“Yes,” I gasped, arching my back, wiggling against him. “Yes.”
