Dirty Headlines(18)
“Could have sworn horizontal is your favorite position,” Célian snapped, standing up and grabbing his jacket from the back of his chair.
Mathias continued, ignoring him, “I would love to have you come to my office to discuss what you are seeing and experiencing in my newsroom. Monday at ten?”
I smiled, opening my mouth to accept the invitation, when Célian’s hand locked around my wrist and dragged me out of his office and down the hallway. I stumbled over my own feet. What the hell was his problem? I must have uttered the question out loud, because he let out a frustrated growl more fitting for felines in the wild. He pushed open a door leading to a dim, empty room I’d never been in before and slammed it behind us.
The power room.
I grunted as my back hit rough buttons and cold metal. Célian was pressed so close, I could feel his hot, male presence squeezing the lust out of me, which made a very different groan escape my lips. He took a step back, as if my touch was lethal.
“Stay away from him.” His voice was so low and menacing, I felt it in my stomach.
“Hmm…” I grinned, swiping my tongue across my bottom lip and staring at him through hooded eyes. “I think I just talked to the real God around here, and Jesus got pissed.”
Inwardly, I could hear Jesus rumbling, “Yup. She’s throwing me under the bus again.” I made a mental note to visit my local church on Sunday.
“I’m not in the business of repeating myself,” he seethed, ignoring my jab, and if I knew one thing about Célian, it was that he never passed an opportunity to outwit you once you threw a jab at him. “And I don’t want you near him. His intentions aren’t pure.”
“And yours are?” I huffed. “Look, I can’t—and won’t—ignore my boss. My real boss. The man who pays my salary.”
He bent down to bite my ear. “I’m the man who fucked you senseless and you can’t stop thinking about. I’m the asshole you masturbate to in order to get off. I’m the guy who will destroy my competition, especially when it comes to Mathias Laurent. So, do yourself a favor and keep your pussy—my pussy—as far away from him as possible. Compris?”
His tight chest and hard abs against my soft body. His tall, commanding figure enveloping my small one into submission. He was touching me without really touching me, and I wanted him to swallow me whole, like a Venus flytrap—clamp his jaw and absorb every inch of me.
Touch me.
Fill me.
Drown me in your poisonous kisses.
Let me die from your venom, buried under your sinful skin.
“I hate you.”
“Would you like to test that theory?” He chuckled, forever standoffish, even when it felt like thunder cracked between us in the dark room.
I should have said no, but something else slid from my mouth breathlessly. “Yeah. Fact-checking is your craft, isn’t it?”
Without looking back, he reached behind him, locking us in. My heart pitter-pattered into submission, no longer lonely and resentful. Célian grabbed my jaw and crashed our lips together in an animalistic kiss that somehow started from the middle, with tongues battling, fingers unbuttoning clothes, and hands roaming, searching, squeezing, and twisting every inch of flesh and fabric. I was out of breath before my dress hit the floor, and out of my mind the minute his cock pressed against my stomach.
“Haven’t had the chance to read the employee manual of LBC yet. Is this an official part of our one-on-one meetings?” I laughed, my heart threatening to burst out of my skin and fall at his Italian-loafered feet.
“Am I doing anything you don’t want me to do?”
“You’re doing less than I want you to do,” I admitted.
“Then no talking, Humphry. I like you better that way.”
“Still hate you,” I mumbled into his mouth, clawing at his shirt. He was dressed, so very dressed, and I’d never wanted anyone more naked in my life.
“Still don’t care,” he hissed and hoisted me up against the door, slamming his groin into mine.
“Condom,” I ordered.
No matter how sexy Célian was, he still gave me the vibe of someone who’d been around the block, and this was Manhattan, so there were plenty of dubious blocks to choose from.
“Fuck.” He bit down on my lip punishingly, pulling away from me, plastering his forehead against mine, and rolling it from side to side. “I’m clean.”
“I don’t care.”
“Surely you’re on the pill.” His cock dug between my legs, and it was hard to deny him anything, decapitating me included.
“We’re not at a point in our relationship where we’re having this conversation. I want you to get me off, not get me pregnant. I need to forget.”
Forget that my life is a mess, that my dad is dying, that I’m drowning in bills.
But of course, he didn’t ask. Didn’t care.
He looked down at me. For a second, something passed between us. Despite his perpetually cold exterior, he seemed to understand loss and disappointment—in a fundamental way that tainted your entire perception of life.
He spun me around and slapped my bare knees like a scolding headmaster. It wasn’t the burn, but the shock that made me fall down on all fours. I was blinking away the surprise when I felt him lower to his knees behind me.