Page 14 of Kissing the Boss
He doesn't pull his hand away. Instead, his fingers curl around mine, holding me there. I can feel his pulse through his wrist, rapid and matching my own. The garage feels too small suddenly, the air between us too thick.
"I don't want to pretend anymore," I whisper, the confession tumbling out, honest and raw. "I don't want to act like I'm not drawn to you, like there's not something here that's—"
"I'm your boss." His voice is strained, but he still doesn't let go of my hand. "You work for me."
"Is that all I am to you? An employee?"
His jaw tightens. "You know it's not."
"Then why are we fighting this?" I move closer, eliminating the safe distance between us. "Why pretend there's nothing happening when we both know there is?"
"Because—" He runs his free hand through his hair, frustration evident in every line of his body. His shirt pulls tight across his chest with the movement. "Because it's not right. You deserve better than some grease monkey who's too old, too set in his ways—"
"Stop telling me what I deserve," I interrupt, heat flaring in my chest. "I know what I want."
"And what's that?" His voice drops, dangerous and low.
"You."
The word hangs in the air between us, honest and undeniable.
His eyes hold mine, searching, conflicted. I see him waging war with himself—duty against desire, propriety against need. I watch as his gaze drops to my mouth, lingers there.
"This is a mistake," he murmurs, but he's leaning closer, drawn by the same magnetic pull I feel.
"Maybe," I agree, tilting my face up to his. "Or maybe it's the most right thing either of us has done."
I see the moment his control breaks. The exact second when the last thread of restraint snaps.
His hand releases mine only to cup the back of my neck, fingers threading through my hair.
"Tell me to stop," he says roughly.
"I won't," I breathe against his mouth.
Then his lips claim mine, and the world narrows to this single point of contact. Not tentative, not questioning—fierce and hungry and desperate. His lips are firm but soft, his stubble a delicious scrape against my skin. I melt into him, hands sliding up his chest to curl around his neck, pulling him closer.
The kiss deepens, his tongue teasing the seam of my lips until I open for him. He groans when our tongues meet, the sound reverberating through me, settling low in my belly. His hands move from my face to my waist, fingers digging into the soft curve of my hips.
He walks me backward until I hit the desk, our bodies pressed flush together, letting me feel every hard plane of his chest, the solid heat of him. My hands explore greedily over his shoulders, down his back, feeling the shift and play of muscles beneath his shirt.
"God, Cassandra," he mutters against my mouth, breaking away to trail hot kisses down my neck. "Do you have any idea what you do to me?"
"Show me," I challenge, voice breathy with want.
His eyes, when they meet mine, are dark with hunger. He lifts me onto the desk in one fluid motion, stepping between my thighs. Papers scatter to the floor, forgotten. He captures my mouth again, one hand tangling in my hair, the other sliding beneath my sweater.
I arch into the touch, gasping when his rough palm skims up my torso to brush the underside of my breast. Even through my bra, I can feel the heat of him, and my nipples tighten in anticipation.
"You've been driving me crazy," he confesses against my throat, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there. "Every day, watching you in my office, trying not to think about how you'd feel under me."
"I'm here now," I whisper, tugging at the hem of his shirt. "Touch me, Jonathan."
He obliges, cupping my breast fully, thumb circling the hardened peak through the fabric. I moan, head falling back, offering more of my neck to his hungry mouth. He accepts the invitation, sucking lightly at the pulse point while his hand works magic through my bra.
"Off," I demand, tugging more insistently at his shirt. "I want to feel you."
He steps back just long enough to pull his work shirt over his head, revealing a white undershirt that clings to every ridge of muscle. I drink in the sight of him, broad shoulders, powerful chest, the hint of definition visible through the thin cotton.
