Page 29 of Aim Assist

His eyes darken, gaze dropping to my lips. "Depends what you're offering."

I lean in, pulse quickening. "What do you want?"

"You first."

I set the glass down deliberately. Lick my lips. His eyes track the movement, hungry. "A kiss," I whisper. "One kiss per sip."

"You drive a hard bargain." But he's already leaning in, one hand cupping my jaw. "I suppose that's fair."

"Wait." I press a finger to his lips. Slowly, I take another sip. Bigger this time. His pupils dilate. "Okay. Now you can kiss me."

"Greedy girl," he murmurs. But then his mouth is on mine and I forget how to breathe.

This kiss is different from the one in the hall. Deeper. Filthier. His tongue curls around mine, strawberry-sweet. I whimper into his mouth, fingers tangling in his hair. Dragging him closer. He groans, hand tightening on my thigh. His fingers inch beneath my skirt, but they're still too far from where I want them to be.

We break apart, panting. My lips tingle.

"Fuck," he breathes. "You taste incredible."

"So do you." I'm drunk with him already. Craving more.

His fingers flex against my thigh before he deliberately leans back, bringing space between us.

I'd be disappointed, but when he scoots his chair back and pulls me onto his lap, there's no room for disappointment at all.

My ass wiggles against the thick length straining against his pants, and he bites my shoulder in gentle warning.

So I push back in a long, slow movement, hearing him groan against my skin.

We're in public, and people are probably staring. It's amazing how little I give a shit. It's so crowded that most people aren't going to see much, anyway.

A quick glance around assures me that they're all too busy staring at their own dates, hoping for a hot night.

Not as hot as mine, though.

"I should stop. I think this counts as corrupting the new generation. My room's already reserved in hell."

"You sound like a boomer or something," I mutter. His hands spread my knees apart, hooking my legs on the outside of his.

Thank fucking God I didn't pack one of my bodysuit slimmers that come together at my crotch. Instead, this one's a long tank that sucks my belly in, and I can feel it rolling up from my hips, unhinged and disrupted from its role in keeping me snatched and sexy.

But that's the least of my concerns.

My bodycon skirt slides up my legs, unable to stretch enough for what he's doing to me. My clit pulses with a need so strong I'm about to go insane.

Those gorgeous fingers are on my thighs, digging in. I slide my hands over his and guide them higher.

And higher.

Until he's lightly stroking against my panties, which were soaked before I got off the elevator.

I bite back a moan when I feel him sneaking a finger ever so slowly beneath the elastic band of my underwear, only to be distracted by soft, breathy kisses against the nape of my neck.

There's some sort of loud pop song on the radio, and my hips gyrate to the beat.

This should all be so awkward—me, not a tiny woman, in his lap at a relatively small table.

It should look ridiculous. Maybe it does.

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