Behind Closed Doors (Behind Closed Doors #1)(54)

But when I expect him to press inside me, he surprises me, rolling me to my back. “As much as I want inside you, baby, I want to know if you taste as sweet as I think you do. Stretch your arms over your head and grab the bars of the headboard.”

I wait for that feeling in the hallway to return, but it doesn’t. Apparently being naked and exposed isn’t the real issue here at all. All there is is a throbbing arousal between my thighs and heat in my belly. And damn it, this man has promised me his tongue, and even if that wasn’t certain bliss, I don’t want the emotions and fears from that hallway to win. I stretch my arms over my head and my fingers close around what turns out to be rows of steel bars, the position thrusting my breasts against his chest, his palms covering them, caressing, teasing. His mouth follows, licking my left nipple, suckling, and then the right, then repeating.

“Jason,” I pant, his name a plea for more, for him inside me. “I need you now.”

But he doesn’t give me what I ask for. Instead, his lips drag down the center of my body, his hands down my sides, lips lingering at my belly, palms settling at my knees, easing them farther apart. I am positively coming unglued when he blows warmly on my clit, his tongue lapping, then twirling. I don’t let go of the headboard. In fact, when his mouth closes down on me and he’s suckling and licking, his fingers sliding inside me, I hold on tighter. But I don’t hold on long, because it doesn’t take long. I shatter, so quickly it’s embarrassing, my body quaking and trembling until I collapse.

Jason is there almost instantly, turning us to our sides again, lifting my leg to his hip and pressing inside me. And it is sweet bliss, exactly what I need and want. “Finally,” he breathes out.

“Finally,” I agree breathlessly, but he doesn’t drive into me, or take the release he must crave.

Instead, he cups my head and kisses me, licking into my mouth, the salty taste of me on his tongue, and he knows it, murmuring, “That’s what my new addiction tastes like. My first ever.”

He doesn’t leave me time to read into those words, and I’m not sure I’m capable of it now anyway. Not when he’s inside me, thick and hard, and suddenly moving, thrusting, swaying. And kissing me and touching me. It is intimate, and right, in ways I have never experienced. All my vulnerabilities are lost in this man, a stranger who became my lover. I don’t know time. I don’t know limits and fears. I only know the perfect storm of pleasure that has us shattering in each other’s arms, then melting into each other.

It’s long minutes later when he strokes hair from my eyes and tilts my head back, bringing my mouth to his and kissing me. “Give me about thirty seconds,” he says, pulling out of me and rolling to the other side of the bed.

I sit up, pulling my knees to my chest and taking in the room for the first time, finding it to be the kind of high-end hotel room my father expected. A big TV screen. Neutral grays and blues. Expensive mahogany furnishings. A sitting area to the left with gray leather upholstery. All pure luxury items. But the best feature of all is Jason’s naked ass, as he crosses to the dresser under the television. Holy wow. The man has a great body I haven’t fully appreciated, but I plan to remedy that quickly.

He opens a drawer and pulls on a pair of sweats, and since we haven’t unpacked I assume he keeps basics here year round. It’s then that I have a flashback to peeking around a corner into the hallway, tears streaming down my cheeks, while I watch my mother fight off my father from the corner she’s pinned against.

“For you,” Jason says, sitting next to me and pulling a T-shirt over my head, the scent of him spicy and warm, easing me back to a much happier place than the past.

The cotton slides down my body, and when our eyes meet, the connection between us punches me in the chest, followed by a ball of emotion I don’t understand or even know how to name. I shiver, and he must think it’s because I’m cold, because he reaches to the foot of the bed, grabs a throw blanket, and pulls it around my shoulders. He holds on to it, on to me, and I have a moment where I think I’m falling for him. He could hurt me. And I swore I’d never let anyone have that power over me again.

“We should talk about us, and what happened tonight,” he says.

“The hallway or the blackmail?” I ask. Considering that my heart is thundering in my chest, I am pleased that I sound as calm and cool as I do in my professional life, not like the crazy person he’s seen in elevators.

“I wanted too much too fast,” he says, his eyes darker now—troubled, I think, because of me. “I pushed you in that hallway and—”

“No,” I say, reaching up and cupping his face. “No, you didn’t. That was about me, not you.”

He catches my hand, holding it and my stare. I brace myself for the probe to follow, the questions I’m not sure how I will answer, but that isn’t what I get. “I want to get to know you, Skye. Let’s turn off the weekend timer.”

He has said exactly what I want to hear, and exactly what I don’t want to hear, at the same time. I am now conflicted and confused, two things I would never use to describe myself, but with this man they fit me like a glove. “You’re a weekend guy. You said that.”

“And then a woman walked in the door.” His lips curve. “Isn’t that the premise of every country song? And you’re that woman for me, Skye. Maybe this is just sexual chemistry, and we’ll f*ck our brains out for a week, or two, or six. Or six months. Or maybe it’s more. I’m not asking you to change your life for me, Skye. I’m asking you to give us more time than a weekend to figure this out.”