Saving the CEO (49th Floor #1)(7)

But this guy. Ebenezer. Jack Winter. Mr. Richie Rich Real Estate Man. Whoever the heck he was. He was something else. He was hot, yes, in a conventional sort of way. Tall, good-looking, and all that. Smart—must be, given that he was so rich, and he always seemed to be poring over accounts. But aside from all that, there was something roiling just below the surface, barely contained. The sense that he was perpetually treading a tightrope of some sort. Like he was capable of exploding at any moment, but had simply chosen, through an act of will, not to. And, oh man, when he’d stared at her boobs so blatantly. She should have been offended, she supposed, but as he openly and unapologetically looked his fill, she’d just been turned on. Like crazy turned on.

She was still staring in vain at the sky when she heard him. “I was thinking about what you said.”

She shrieked and jumped about a foot.

“Sorry,” he smirked. “Did I startle you?”

Ugh. There it was again. Apparently all he had to do was speak, aim that low, knowing voice in her direction, and something spiked through her center. Something that had been conspicuously absent with Mr. Hockey and Mr. *NSYNC.

She hoped he would interpret the time she took answering as a sign of nonchalance. Instead of, say, lust. Because there was no getting around it. She wanted him. But she didn’t want him to know she wanted him. Her insides were turning to mush, and he probably just wanted to ask her something about Edward’s scotch collection. But, fake it till you make it, right? She sent him what she hoped was a skeptical look. “You were thinking about what I said? Remind me what I said?”

He waited a beat before he spoke, and in the pause she stared at his lips. Forget nonchalant, as he stuck his tongue out to lick his lips, there was no way not to stare.

“You said rules are meant to be broken.”

There wasn’t even time to gasp before his mouth was on hers—his mouth, tasting of scotch, and his hands. He was everywhere as he pressed her against the brick wall of the building.

He tore his mouth from hers and she did gasp then, greedily sucking in air to fill the vacuum the intense kiss had created. He pressed against the soft flesh of her belly. His desire was unmistakable. “Do you feel that?” he bit out, his voice as raspy as his face—she hadn’t really noticed his five o’clock shadow until it was being rubbed against her cheek. “Do you?”

“Yes,” she breathed. Suspended in a web of white-hot lust, she was unsure if she’d managed enough volume to make herself audible.

“This is what happens to me when I sit at your bar and watch you.”

Holy—

Before she could finish the thought, his mouth was back on hers, his tongue testing the seam of her lips. She opened, and he sucked on her lower lip. When he shoved his tongue into her mouth, she could have sworn she felt it between her legs too.

“I have rules, too,” he whispered, dragging his mouth down her throat until he hit the first button that was done up on her shirt. “And this”—he grabbed the button between his thumb and index finger and pulled until it simply snapped off—“is against them.” With a groan, he lowered his mouth to the exposed flesh.

And there she was, shoving her chest up shamelessly, trying to make it easier for him to access her cleavage with that wicked, wonderful tongue. When the next button popped off and a hand pushed inside her shirt, taking the place of his mouth, she dropped her head back. It was too much work to hold it upright. And when the hand pressed aside the cup of her bra and went straight for her already taut nipple, rolling it between thumb and forefinger, she broke a rule of her own, cursing despite herself. “Oh, shit.”

He laughed, a low, self-satisfied, almost mocking laugh that made her want to punch him. But she feared doing so would make him stop, and right now the most important thing was to make sure that he never, ever stopped.

“We should stop,” he whispered, removing his hand from her shirt.

“Shit.” Once more for good measure—why the hell not? See, once she started, it was all potty mouth all the time.

He took a step back, into the streetlight, and revealed himself to be…completely unaffected. While she, panting and sweaty and breathless, felt like little pieces of her were scattered about the dirty snow at their feet…he was as cool and unruffled as ever. She had heard him groan at one point, hadn’t she? Or—please no—maybe that had actually been her?

He narrowed his eyes at her with a look she could not decode. Voices made their way into her consciousness, and she looked around, disoriented. Had he stopped because someone was coming? Or because she was a disappointment?

“Should I apologize?” he asked, no inflection in his tone. The question was followed by the jingle of the seasonal bells Edward tied to the restaurant’s door.

She shook her head no, not trusting her voice. If she spoke, she might do something as humiliating as beg him to kiss her again.

Sara and Camille—she could make out the voices now—approached, chattering and laughing. Her eyes darted around, searching for an escape, which was ridiculous because it wasn’t like they were doing anything wrong. She looked down at herself. He reached out and closed her coat, tucking one lapel over the other.

The chattering stopped as the women halted and took in the scene. “Cassie?” said Camille, with her signature upspeak. “What are you doing?”