He groans and he grabs me, his arms
snaking around me, one hand at the nape of my neck,
tipping my head back as his lips find mine. My fingers are
in his hair and caressing his cheek as he pushes me back
against the elevator wall.
“I hate arguing with you,” he breathes against my
mouth, and there’s a desperate, passionate quality to his
kiss that mirrors mine. Desire explodes in my body, all the
tension of the day seeking an outlet, straining against him,
seeking more. We’re all tongues and breathing and hands
and touch and sweet, sweet sensation. His hand is on my
hip, and abruptly he’s pulling up my skirt, his fingers
stroking my thighs.
“Sweet Jesus, you’re wearing stockings.” He moans in
appreciative awe as his thumb caresses the flesh above my
stocking line. “I want to see this,” he breathes, and he pulls
my skirt right up, exposing the tops of my thighs.
Stepping back, he reaches over to press the stop
Stepping back, he reaches over to press the stop
button, and the elevator coasts smoothly to a halt between
the twenty-second and twenty-third floors. His eyes are
dark, lips parted, and he’s breathing as hard as am I. We
gaze at each other, not touching. I am grateful for the wall
against my back, holding me up while I bask in this
beautiful man’s sensual, carnal appraisal.
“Take your hair down,” he orders, his voice husky. I
reach up and undo the tie, releasing my hair so it tumbles in
a thick cloud around my shoulders to my breasts. “Undo
the top two buttons of your shirt,” he whispers, his eyes
wilder now.
He makes me feel so wanton. My inner goddess is
writhing on her chaise longue, waiting, wanting, and
panting. I reach up and undo each button, achingly, slowly,
so that the tops of my breasts are tantalizingly revealed.
He swallows. “Do you ha一ve any idea how alluring you
look right now?”
Very deliberately, I bite my lip and shake my head. He
closes his eyes briefly, and when he opens them again,
they are blazing. He steps forward and places his hands on
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