Saving the CEO (49th Floor #1)(10)

The bells of Edward’s door jingled, drawing his attention. Christ, finally, someone he wasn’t mad at.

It almost seemed like she was expecting him this time, because when he stepped out of the shadows just long enough to pull her back into them with him, there was no evidence of surprise. Her lips opened, but instead of rounding in shock, her jaw relaxed, letting that plump bottom lip fall open. Jesus f*cking Christ, the places he could imagine that mouth. Instead of widening, her eyes glazed over with something that looked suspiciously like desire. He eyed her for a moment, trying to remember why this was a bad idea. Too late, though, because she kissed him this time. Rising onto her tiptoes, she grabbed the back of his neck, tugged his head down, and pressed her lips against his with a soft little whimper that managed to drown out any lingering peeps of better judgment.

He let her take the lead for a while, bending down to give her better access as she twined her arms around his neck. Tonight, as yesterday, she tasted like cinnamon. But there was a boldness in her kisses that hadn’t been there last night. Then she went for the hollow of his neck, which, Christ, felt good enough, but it also meant her hair was right under his nose. That maddening vanilla—it must be her shampoo. Together with the cinnamon of her mouth, she was like a goddamned cake. A cake he couldn’t cram into his mouth fast enough, so this was the end of her little exploration. He was in charge now.

“That’s enough,” he said, and she dropped her hands immediately, misunderstanding. She took an uncertain step back, scared off. Shit. “That’s not what I meant.” He was still thinking of cake. With her curtain of dark hair, her killer curves, and that spicy-vanilla assault on his senses, she might as well have been a f*cking cinnamon roll. Her freckles were the sprinkles on top. “Christ. I could eat you.”

A sharp intake of breath. Her head fell forward for a moment, like it was too heavy for her to hold up. Then she righted it, looked him directly in the eye and said, “Why don’t you then?”

That was it. A literal fire under his ass couldn’t have made him move any faster. They’d been standing in front of the restaurant—in the shadows, yes, but shadows were not enough for some things. He yanked her into the narrow alley that ran between Edward’s and the next building and fell to his knees in the crunchy snow. She gasped—she hadn’t thought he’d really do it. That would teach her to tease him. Sliding his hands up her skirt, he found the top of her tights and jerked them down.

Grabbing his forearms, she shoved him. “Whoa,” she whispered.

He held up his hands as if at gunpoint, still on his knees. Christ, standing there with her tights around her knees, she was hotter than anything he’d ever conjured in his wickedest fantasies. If she stopped him now, there was no justice in the world. But still, he was a gentleman. He might be an ass, but he was also a gentleman. “You want me to stop?”

“Yes—no.” She shook her head. “I don’t know.” Her face was blazing. She looked like a goddess.

He lowered his hands and pressed his palms against the front of her knees. Keeping a close eye on her face, slowly he began moving his hands up. Despite the December air, her skin was warm. When his hands reached the top of her panties, he stopped, still watching her. He was vibrating, humming with lust. He raised his eyebrows in a silent question. Then he licked his lips.

She nodded.

Down came the panties—a plain black cotton bikini, which, God help him, was the hottest thing he’d ever seen.

No, scratch that. The hottest thing he’d ever seen was the shock of mahogany hair between her legs. She was trimmed and neat, but not hairless like most women. He hadn’t thought he had much of an opinion on the matter, until now, when he suddenly did.

He skipped the preliminaries, anchored his hands on her thighs, and buried his face in her. Vanilla there, too—how was that possible?—mixed with a musky spice. She was already wet. He drew a finger across her folds and was rewarded with a shaky exhale. “You like that?” he whispered, following the same path with his tongue.

She didn’t answer, unless you counted the little mewing noise she made when his tongue hit her. He snuck a glance up. He wasn’t even sure she’d heard his question—her head lolling against the brick wall, her eyes closed. She was good at this, at losing herself. Her lack of self-consciousness was maybe the most erotic thing he’d ever seen. He tried again—yep, there was that insanely hot whimper again. All right, they were in an alley outside in December—now was not the time to draw things out. He didn’t want to, anyway. He just wanted to lose himself in those curls. Fuck the financials. Fuck Carl. Fuck the Wexler deal. He went straight for her clit, licking softly a few times to make sure she wasn’t going to panic. When all she did was moan and twine her fingers in his hair, he increased the pressure, alternating with sucking, trying to figure out what she liked. When she cried out and clenched her fists in his hair, he stuck with a rhythm of thrusting alternating with softer licking. It wasn’t long before her shallow breathing stopped altogether. Unable to withstand any more, he used one hand to fumble his cock out of his pants.

“Oh!” She came apart on him, and it was only two more strokes before he followed her.

They both froze for a moment, he on his knees with his dick in his hand and she splayed against the brick wall in her pink winter coat, but with her skirt hiked up and her underwear around her knees. Jesus, what a picture they must make. He had a belated thought that he hoped there weren’t any security cameras around. Or, hell, maybe he hoped there were. Probably, the resulting tape would be scorching.