o move, really move. And I surrender
myself to his relentless rhythm, sa一voring each push and
pull, his ragged breathing, his need for me, reflecting mine.
It makes me feel powerful, strong, desired and loved
—loved by this captivating, complicated man, whom I love
in return with all my heart. He pushes harder and harder,
his breathing ragged, losing himself in me as I lose myself in
him.
“Oh, baby,” Christian moans, his teeth grazing my jaw,
and I come hard around him. He stills, clutches me, and
follows suit, whispering my name.
Now that Christian is spent, calm and kissing me gently,
his breathing eases. He holds me upright against the
elevator wall, our foreheads pressed together, and my
body is like jelly, weak but gratifyingly sated from my
climax.
“Oh, Ana,” he murmurs. “I need you so much.” He
kisses my forehead.
“And I you, Christian.”
Releasing me, he straightens my skirt and does up the
two buttons on my shirt, then punches the combination into
the keypad that starts the elevator again. It rises with a jolt
so that I reach out and clasp his arms.
“Taylor will be wondering where we are,” he grins
lasciviously at me.
Oh crap. I drag my fingers through my hair in a vain
attempt to combat the just-fucked look, then give up and
tie it in a ponytail.
“You’ll do.” Christian smirks as he does up his fly and
puts the condom in his pants pocket.
Once more he looks the embodiment of an American
entrepreneur, and since his hair looks just fucked most of
the time, there’s very little difference. Except now he’s
smiling, relaxed, his eyes crinkling with boyish charm. Are
all men this easily placated?
Taylor is waiting when the doors open.
“Problem with the elevator,” Christian murmurs as we
both step out, and I cannot look either of them in the face.
I scurry through the double doors to Christian’s bedroom
in search of some fresh underwear.
When I return, Christian has removed his jacket and is
sitting at the breakfast bar chatting with Mrs. Jones. She
smiles kindly at
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