Page 50 of The Boss
He slid the lace down her thighs without looking away from her face reflected in the window. She stepped out of it, one foot, then the other, heels still on, feeling indecent and invincible. He stroked the backs of her thighs, then higher, and she folded over the sofa with a breath that broke on hisname.
He didn’t take her then, didn’t give her what her body was begging for. He pressed his mouth between her shoulder blades and made her wait while he unbuttoned his shirt, each popped thread a small surrender. She looked over her shoulder in time to watch him shrug it off, muscles and scars catching the light, belt already loosening.
“Bedroom,” she pleaded, for real thistime.
He caught her mouth in a kiss that tasted like approval and punishment and stepped back to let her up. “Go.”
She did, hips swinging because she couldn’t not, skin alive everywhere he’d touched and everywhere he hadn’t. She left the lace on the sofa, the taste of herself on his tongue, the ghost of his bite at her shoulder, the city gasping at the glass. She reached the hallway and paused at his look—dark, claiming. She lifted a hand and hooked a finger, calling him with nothing but her smile.
He came like a verdict.
They stripped more as they went. He caught her at the console table and slid his hands up her ribs to her breasts, thumbs circling until she was panting. She reached back and dragged his belt free, tossed it, then caught the waistband and shoved it down. He took over, formal trousers pooling at his ankles, the hard length of him catching the light. She bit her lip and he swore, aquiet, vicious word that seemed like worship and wasn’t.
“Bed,” he said.
“Bed,” she echoed, but detoured for the wall.
He pinned her there with his body while her hands mapped him like she’d paid admission—shoulders, chest, the hard cut of his abdomen, the V that arrowed into heat, the weight of him hot against her palm. He shuddered, caught her wrist, and lifted it to the wall above her head, palm open, fingers splayed where his would fit. He placed his hand over hers, pressed. The contact was nothing and everything, abrand where no ink showed.
“Mine for the night,” he said against her mouth.
“Yours.” She surprised herself by meaning it with something like relief.
He spun her and walked her the last steps, his hand at the side of her throat—command, not choke—his mouth at her ear promising everything and delivering more with every breath. He pushed her to the edge of the bed and she went down with a bounce, hair wild, mouth open. He stood at the foot and took in the sight of her like it might undohim.
“Legs,” he said. “Wider.”
She held his stare and opened for him. He knelt, big hands sliding under her knees to set them over his shoulders, and dragged her to the edge where he wanted her. He didn’t start gentle. He started right. His mouth found her and the world went bright.
She broke on a gasp and a curse, fingers fisting in the duvet. He ate her like a secret he’d kept too long, like he’d been waiting all night to live here. He learned her fast, found what made her climb and what made her fall, and kept her exactly where he wanted her until she had tobeg.
“Please,” she moaned, shameless and shaking. “Leif, please.”
“Look at me.”
She forced her eyes open and the sight—his mouth on her, the heat in his gaze, the promise written in the depth of his eyes—tipped her straight over. The orgasm hit hard enough to blur the city. She rode it with her heels biting his back and his hands holding her exactly where he wanted her, and he didn’t stop until she went liquid.
He came up slow, kissed the inside of her knee, then the tender place where her thigh met her body, then the soft throb of her clit with the lightest brush that made herjolt.
“Again,” he said, and she almost cried with how much she wanted to obey and how impossible itfelt.
“Need you,” she whispered.
“You have me.”
He reached for the bedside drawer without taking his eyes off her. The crinkle of foil turned heat into wildfire. She took the packet from his fingers, tore it, and rolled the condom down over him with hands that shook for reasons that weren’t nerves.
“Good girl,” he said, and the approval stroked places his hands hadn’t touched. “Hands above your head.”
She obeyed. He caught her wrists in one palm and pinned them to the headboard, not hard, not gentle—just sure—then pressed into her in one long, purposeful stroke.
Her breath broke. So did his. He went still when he was buried to the hilt, forehead to hers, chest heaving, hand still holding her wrists. She wrapped her legs around his waist and tightened until his control flared in hiseyes.
“Move,” she begged.
He did. Long, deep, nothing spared. The headboard tapped the wall, the mattress answered, the city threw light across his back and her chest. He watched her while he took her, watched every change in her face, every shiver and catch, adjusted with ruthless precision until she couldn’t breathe without breathinghim.
“Harder,” she said against his mouth. “I can take it.”
