Mogul (Manhattan #2)(43)

He drives with one hand on the wheel, the window partly down, letting in the cool air. After finding a parking spot only two homes away from his brownstone, he helps me out, and I’m sleepy and tired, but I don’t want to go home just yet. I enjoy being with him too much, and I crave his touch like oxygen.

He walks me in, and I almost melt when I see a brand-new couch waiting in the living room. A Cloud.

I smile up at him in surprise, and when he winks, my smile fades as my heart begins to pulse madly with yearning, and I admit, “I had a good time today.”

“I enjoyed you being there.” We head to the couch, his gaze running over me. “I could hardly take my eyes off you.”

“’Cause I’m the only lunatic who starts dancing with no music.”

“I’m the lunatic who can’t get enough of it.” His smile changes to a frown as he rethinks his words. “No. Not a lunatic. I feel saner than I ever have in my life.”

We stare at each other.

“This feels right.”

I nod, our eyes holding. The moment is suddenly too intimate for me to stand. “You mean your couch. Feels right.”

He dips his head slightly, a smile ruffling his lips. We both know we don’t mean the couch.

His expression turns serious, his eyes burning with smoldering intensity as he rubs his thumb across my lower lip.

“I’ve been hungering for this.”

“Me too.” I let my tongue come out, to lick his thumb.

He likes it, smiles. My insides melt under the force of that smile.

I’m not sure this casual dating thing is working for me. I think of him all the time, and not just for this—although this seems to be the only outlet I have for these feelings inside me.

I reach out, craving his touch, and the need to touch him is too much. I urge his shirt up the waistband of his slacks; then I push the fabric up his chest and Ian pulls it over his head with a tug. The movement messes up his hair, and it ends up tousled and gorgeous as he stands before me in nothing but his slacks.

“Here. Give me this,” he says, taking my chin between his thumb and forefinger and tipping my face back to take from my lips what he hungers for. I don’t know what it is he hungers for—my taste or my lips or my lust or the way I respond to him without hesitation. Maybe he hungers to simply drive me wild. But I give him everything because I hunger for all of that from him, too.

The way he tastes me like I’m a perfect morsel. The way he kisses me like he’s burning up with passion and I’m the cause. The way he holds my face so that there’s no escaping his kiss or his passion.

When he tears his mouth free, he’s breathing hard, and I’m chasing my breath in and out. I grab his belt and unbuckle him. I trail my fingers up his hard abs and his pecs.

He tips my face back farther, for him to bend down and drop kisses all over me. I offer it with no protest, sighing softly when his kisses start a haphazard path across my chin and cheeks and nose and forehead.

He tugs my sweater dress up my frame. He pulls it over my head and bends to flick open my bra from the front clasp.

He sets a kiss on my nose. Then my chin. Then between my breasts. Before he licks the tip of his tongue in a hot little circle around the tip of one breast. My toes curl when he cups my breast with the heel of his palm and sucks me fully into his mouth. My head falls back and his arm comes around to hold me on my feet. I tremble as he keeps sucking me, and I make a small, mewling sound.

Ian smiles at that. Gathering me to him, he backs us to the couch and takes a seat, bringing me down with him.

I’m breathless and frantic, curling my arms around his neck as I straddle him, pressing my lips to his, my tongue circling around his, pushing against his.

He slows the pace with his tongue, stroking a hand down my back, causing tingles to race down my spine.

I look up at him and into his smoldering dark eyes as I reach to dip my fingers between our bodies, under his slacks. His cock is made for sex and pleasure, and right now nothing can convince me that it wasn’t made for me and only me.

I curl my fingers around him as Ian slides his own between my thighs, under my panties. “How hard do you want it?” He presses his mouth to my own, kissing me lazily between words.

I push my hips up to his touch. “Hard,” I whimper.

He bends and licks one of my nipples, then the other. Then he blows air on them, the yummy bastard. And my whole body clenches and arches up as a bow, my hips thrusting for more of his fingers. “Yummy, please.”

I rock them against his hardness.

He grabs the back of my head and inhales the back of my ear, then kisses a path to my breasts. “You smell good, Dancer.” His eyes twinkle greedily as his tongue snakes out to taste my nipples. I gasp and clench my fingers into his hair.

“Like garbage?” I quip after being all day on set with him.

“No, sweetheart. You smell like you.”

He rolls me over to lay me down on the length of the couch, and I can tell that he’s using his arms to keep from crushing me beneath him. I lock one of my legs around his hips and pull him down lower, wanting his weight on top of me. Wanting all of him over me.

“Take these off.” I tug at his pants.

He stands to remove them, stepping out of his shoes and taking off his boxers along with his slacks.

His skin is so warm as he spreads his body on top of mine that I mewl softly. I run my hands down the muscles on his back, feeling them flex as he adjusts himself above me to continue his assault on my body.