Page 13 of One Wicked Night with the Boss

My favorite color. I was developing an appreciation for pink on black lace, too.

“The skirt,” I reminded her. “Otherwise, you might rip it.”

She sucked in a quick breath. For a moment, it seemed she might scrap her plan to fix the wiring.

That was okay. I was fine with Plan B. Or C or D.

But she reached down and raised her hem, dragging the fabric to her upper thighs with a slight wiggle of her hips that almost made me groan. “All right,” she said. “What should I do?”

I had about a dozen suggestions, all of them guaranteed to get me slapped in the face. “Get on my back, then climb onto my shoulders.”

“Your back?”

“You’ve never done a piggyback?”

“Of course I—”

“Then hop on.” I turned and held my arms away from my body like a gunslinger. “I’ll catch you.”

If she was going to bail, it was now. I readied myself for the possibility. Then she gripped my shoulders and counted. “One, two, three.”

Warm woman landed on my back. I caught her around the backs of her knees, barely stopping myself from rubbing my palms along the firm, satiny skin filling my hands.

“Are you okay?” Her breath tickled my ear, and the scent of roses and sugar surrounded me. “Am I too heavy?”

“No.” I was lucky my voice came out normal instead of a caveman grunt. Because having her warm breasts pressed into my back and her legs wrapped around my waist was directing all the oxygen in my body away from my brain.

“What now?”

I slid my hands to her feet. I wasn’t normally a foot man, but for her I had to make an exception. She had high arches and delicate ankles I couldn’t help but imagine linked around my waist as I pumped into her. I dragged in a breath. “Climb onto my shoulders. You won’t hurt me.”

She climbed me like a tree, all her experience with banisters clearly paying off as she boosted herself and swung her legs over my shoulders. Roses bloomed all around me, and her pussy was hot as a forge on the back of my neck.

Desire lashed me like a whip, and I might have squeezed too hard when I shifted my grip to just above her knees. She didn’t seem to notice. Her thighs tightened around my head, letting me know she was already stretching toward the panel.

“Can you reach it?” I couldn’t follow her progress with her on my shoulders. I could only stare straight ahead and try not to think about how a piece of fabric separated her pussy from my skin.

“Almost . . . got it.” She exhaled a soft grunt. There was a sharp, stubborn squeal of metal. Then she let out a victorious crow. “I’m in!”

Her triumph was contagious. I patted her thigh. “Good girl.”

“I’ll be as fast as I can.” She sounded vague, her attention obviously on the problem above her.

At least one of us had a distraction, I thought wryly. I settled in for a long wait of sexual frustration. My cock twitched like a puppy begging for attention and my balls ached from hours of unspent desire.

Metal squealed again. A second later, she jerked and gave a sharp cry.

I popped her off my shoulders and swung her into my arms. “What’s wrong?”

“I cut my hand.” She cradled it against her midsection. Her voice was breathless—probably a combination of pain from her injury and my quick maneuvering. She felt good in my arms. Better than good, actually. But she was hurt.

I stepped to the grate, where moonlight shone the brightest, and let her slide to the ground.

She examined her hand, then let out a low groan. “Jess is going to kill me. I got blood on her shirt.”

“Jess?”

Holding her bleeding hand away from her body, she looked up. “Jessica, my younger sister.” She hesitated, her expression shifting to what might have been embarrassment, then added, “I, uh, borrowed her clothes.”

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