Page 13 of Tempted By the Bosshole

When his hot palms skim my body, my thoughts scatter. Ditto in double when he lifts me against his chest bridal style, as if I weigh next to nothing.

I cling to his neck. “What are you doing?”

“Seducing you.” He sets me on the edge of his ruthlessly made bed. His comforter is so taut, I’d swear I could bounce quarters off it. Neatness that exacting doesn’t come merely from being fastidious. Was he in the military? Given his short, sharp haircut and that predatory vibe he gives off, it fits.

He hovers over me and presses forward, urging me back to the mattress. He follows, his eyes glittering with promise. That stare robs me of breath. My heart thuds against my ribs just before he grinds his lips against mine in a kiss that demands my surrender. I can’t help it; I moan against him and melt. I don’t know much about this man except we work for the same investment firm, he’s divorced, and he kisses like he’s intent on extracting every pleasure possible from my body.

When he nudges my lips apart, I open to him eagerly. He steals inside my mouth like midnight, quietly, inexorably, leaving me with an undeniable desire for more.

Our breaths sync up. I throw my arms around him. He cups my nape, tilts my head, and opens me up to his most demanding kiss yet. I’m not aware of arching up to him, but he seizes on my unconscious plea and cups my breast in his hot palm. Slowly, he slides his thumb across my aching nipple in teasing back-and-forth sweeps. I whimper and clutch him tighter. My hips move restlessly in search of relief.

“Need something, baby girl?”

“More,” I breathe against his mouth.

“You’ll get it. By sunrise, you’ll be—what do you twenty-somethings say?—walking side to side.”

He can’t be serious. That’s not really a thing, is it?

As those questions zip through my head, he breathes on my neck, wringing a shiver from me, before his lips skim down my body. He captures one of my nipples, worshipping the sensitive tip and ratcheting up my desire. He never hesitates or second guesses. It’s as if he knows my body. I wasted six years on Eric, who never quite figured out where to touch me. Miraculously, this stranger already knows where to find my erogenous zones.

We haven’t even had sex yet, and I’m already worried one night with him won’t be enough.

He scrapes his brutally short nails across my other nipple. Then, as he sucks the first deep again, he pinches the other. Tingles detonate, shooting sensation straight to my clit.

“Oh, my god. Yes…”

“You wet for me?”

He’s too observant not to have noticed the dark spot on my mistletoe thong.

“Yes.”

He releases my nipple and slides his hand down my abdomen, his fingers slow-dancing with the waistband of my panties. “Do you want me to touch you?”

“Please.”

A little smile almost softens the hard angles of his face. “I’ll always reward honesty and politeness. Spread your legs.”

Wider? I don’t ask why, just obey. The elastic of my thong surrenders to his whims as easily as I do, giving way to his delicious invasion.

Unerringly, he finds my clit. At his first touch, I gasp and jackknife at the torrent of tingles.

He pushes me back to the bed with one hand. “You’re soaked. Perfect.”

Tracing lazy circles over my aching bundle of nerves, he props himself up on one elbow and watches me, drinking in my every reaction. His stare is unnerving. It’s intimate. But I can’t look away. I lose track of time, not to mention the number of moans and whimpers he wrings from me. My desire climbs with his every swipe over my slick, puffy flesh.

Blood rushes between my legs and pumps from my pounding heart, resounding between my ears. Something big is happening, and when this tension explodes it will blow away my definition of orgasm.

Before it seizes me, he pulls his hand free with a grin.

“No! Why did you stop?”

“Deprivation will make your release even sweeter.”

Obviously, he has no way of knowing I’ve been deprived most of my life.

“Besides, it’s the holidays,” he quips. “You can’t expect me to ignore the mistletoe.”

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