Beautiful Bastard (Beautiful Bastard, #1)(37)

I closed the distance between us, wrapping my hand around the back of her neck. I pulled her to me, meeting her gaze as I drew her mouth to mine. There was an unspoken challenge there. Neither of us would back down or admit that this—whatever this was—was beyond our control.

Or maybe both of us just had.

The moment our lips touched, I was overtaken by a familiar buzz coursing through my body.

My hands fisted deeply into her hair, forcing her head back, to take everything I pressed into her. This might be for her, but I was damn sure going to control it. Pressing my body to hers, I groaned at the way each of her curves fit against me. I wanted this need to go away, to be satisfied and move on; but each time I felt her, it was better than I remembered.

Falling to my knees, I grasped her hips and pulled her closer, my lips moving across the waist of her pants. Lifting her shirt up, I kissed each inch of visible skin, enjoying the tensing of her muscles as I explored. I looked up at her, hooking my fingers into the waistband. Her eyes were closed and she was biting her lower lip. I felt my cock harden in anticipation of what I was about to do.




I pulled her pants down her thighs, goose bumps breaking out over her skin as I trailed my fingers down her legs. Her hands went to my hair and pulled roughly, and I groaned as I looked back up at her. I traced the edge of the delicate satin of her lingerie, stopping at the thin straps on her hips. “These are almost too pretty to ruin,” I said, wrapping one strap around each hand.

“Almost.” With a quick tug they broke easily, allowing me to pull the pink material away and stuff it into my pocket.

A sense of urgency took over me then, and I quickly freed one of her legs, placing it over my shoulder and kissing along the soft skin of her inner thigh.

“Oh, shit,” she said on an exhale, running her hands into my hair. “Oh, shit, please.”

As I first nuzzled and then slowly licked along her clit, she gripped my hair tightly, moving her hips against my mouth. Unintelligible words fell from her lips in a hoarse whisper, and seeing her come undone so completely made me realize she was as helpless against this as I was. She was pissed at me, so pissed that part of her probably wanted to hook her leg around my neck and strangle me, but at least she was letting me give her something that was, in many ways, so much more intimate than simple f*cking. I was on my knees, but she was vulnerable and bare.

She was also warm and wet and tasted just as f*cking sweet as she looked.

“I could f*cking consume you,” I whispered, pulling back enough to glance up at her expression. Kissing her hip, I murmured, “This would be so much better if I could spread you out somewhere. A table in a conference room, perhaps.”

She tugged on my hair, pulling me back to her with a smile. “This is working just fine for me. Don’t you dare stop.”

I almost admitted aloud that I couldn’t, and I was starting to abhor the thought of even trying but soon was lost in her skin again. I wanted to memorize every curse and plea that escaped her mouth and know that I was the reason for it. I moaned against her, causing her to cry out as she twisted her body closer. Sliding two fingers inside her, I pulled on her hip with the other hand to urge her to find her rhythm with me. She began rolling her hips, slowly at first, pressing into me, and then faster. I could feel her tense: her legs, her abdomen, her hands in my hair.

“So close,” she panted, her movements faltering, growing jagged and a little wild, and f*ck if I didn’t feel a little wild myself. I wanted to bite and suck, bury my fingers inside and completely unravel her. I worried I was growing too rough, but her breaths turned into little pants and tightened into pleas. When I twisted my wrist and pushed in deeper, she cried out, legs shaking as her climax overtook her.

Rubbing her hip, I slowly lowered her leg and watched her feet just in case she decided to kick me after all. I ran a finger across my lip and watched her eyes return to focus.

She pushed me away and quickly righted her clothing, looking down at where I kneeled in front of her. Reality crept back as the various sounds of people dining on the other side of the door combined with the sound of our heavy breathing.

“You’re not forgiven,” she said and reached down for her purse, unlocking the door and leaving the room without another word.

I stood up slowly and watched the door close behind her, trying to sort out what had just happened. I should have been furious. But I felt the corner of my mouth lift in a smile and I almost laughed at the absurdity of it.

Damn her, she did it again. She was beating me at my own game.



My night had been hell. I’d hardly slept or eaten, and I’d suffered a near-constant hard-on since leaving the restaurant yesterday. I knew I was in for it as I headed to work. She was going to do everything she could to torture and punish me for lying to her; the sick thing was . . . I was kind of looking forward to it.

I was surprised to find her desk empty upon my arrival. Strange, I thought, she was rarely late. I continued into my office and began getting things in order for the day. Fifteen minutes later, I was distracted from a phone call when I heard the outer door slam. Well, she certainly didn’t disappoint; I could hear drawers and files slamming and knew this would make for an interesting day.

At ten fifteen I was interrupted by my intercom. “Mr. Ryan.” Her cool voice filled the room and despite her obvious annoyance, I found myself smirking as I pressed the button to respond.