Page 59 of Obsessed Heir

He straightens to his full height, bringing both of us to stand with little effort. His hand slides down to settle at the base of my spine while his thigh remains firmly pressed between mine.

My body is taking its own traitorous cues. My most private areas are reacting to the fact I’m indecently close to a man, maybe even to this man in particular. It responds to the intimate brush of his expensive suit against the skin left exposed by the sheer lingerie.

He’s towering above me, but, for once, his overwhelming presence doesn’t feel as if a dark shadow is looming over me. It’s just Barron—the man I’m finding myself inexplicably attracted to, even though he’s made my life hell at every opportunity.

I’m not sure how long we stand there in tense silence, assessing each other without saying a word. Going by how many times my heart beats, it could be hours. Though I’m aware, my pulse is racing with desire and more than a little anticipation.

Barron retreats toward the plush sofa, bringing me with him. He pulls me down to sit on his lap, my trembling legs wantonly straddling his thighs. My breathing is shallow and rapid, barely enough to fill my lungs.

What am I supposed to do about him? And what about this wild situation that has spun rapidly out of control? I haven’t a clue. Though I doubt he has any idea what to do about me either, after all our animosity. Yet here we are, alone, eye to eye, my pulse throbbing in intimate places.

Not even in my wildest dreams would I have imagined I’d find myself here, tangled up with Barron McClelland of all people.

Then again, I never expected to be dressed in virtually transparent lingerie that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination. Much less in one with a slit at each side. The opening leaves a bare strip along my hips and the tops of my thighs.

The burning in my lungs is a desperate cry for air. I suck in a quick breath, catching Barron’s hooded gaze.

His eyes linger on the swell of my breasts, straining against the sheer fabric. There’s no denying he can see straight through to my skin, or at least the detail from the stiff peaks.

His nostrils flare.

My nipples tighten even more under the scorching attention he’s giving them. I should be embarrassed, wanting to cover up and hide my body’s wanton reactions. But instead, I revert to my nervous habit of curling my toes.

Self-conscious, I clench my thighs and tighten the muscles in my calves, all the way down to my pointed toes.

I have a crazy thought. Nobody’s there to see the French pedicure I was trying so hard to capture in that fateful photograph.

Barron reclines against the cushions, appearing more at ease than I’ve ever seen him. His large palms settle on either side of my torso. Meanwhile, I’m perched in his lap, my heart beating against my ribs so loud it echoes in my ears.

I’m waiting for…I don’t know what. For him to make a move? For me to regain my senses and extract myself from this compromising position?

Without warning, his hands cup my breasts. Although his thumbs move over one hardened nipple then the other, the tingling within me doesn’t stop there. No, the aching need pools much lower, between my legs, where I’m sitting across him. Nothing more than a thin string and a couple of beads separating my sex from his slacks.

One hand moves lower, branding the skin at my hip. He trails down to the curve of my thigh in a scorching path. I didn’t think it was possible for my heart to beat any harder.

Breath stuttering, I wait for whatever comes next. My lips part as his thumb fans across the feverish skin of my inner thigh. I swallow hard, intending to tell him I should get up before this goes any further.

He shifts, distracting me. Now I’m struggling to keep my balance as he spreads his knees wider, forcing my legs apart. I set my hands on his chest to steady myself.

The fine cotton slips between my thighs, sending a shiver of pure need through my core. His thumb dips, following the edge of the fabric covering me.

The tips of his fingers settle beside the tiny panties, and I miss my chance to say something. My skin is flushed and especially sensitive from the waxing, heightening my awareness with every brush of his fingertips.

One finger is on the material; the other pad is directly on my bare flesh. They follow along to the bottom of the V at a torturously slow pace that makes me want to scream.

Reaching the tip of the triangle, he pauses as if he’s trying to figure out what happened to the rest of the panties. The hitch in his breathing tells me he realizes there’s nothing else there—I’m completely exposed to him.

Keeping still is torture. Pure, unadulterated torture.

I narrow my eyes at him, knowing he’s deliberately stretching out this delicious torment. There’s barely a twitch of his lips when he finally moves again. He hooks his finger under the flimsy string of my panties, pushing it aside to reach my slit.

I fist the material of his suit, my knuckles whitening with the strain as he strokes the swollen folds of my pussy. The bolt of pleasure he sends through my spine bows my back, the exquisite sensation ricocheting in my head.

My lids press shut of their own accord as a whirlwind of desire takes off inside me. I should protest. I should move. I should wonder what kind of depraved person I am to allow a man who can’t stand me to touch me this way.

Instead, I run my tongue along my lip then set my teeth at the inner edge and bite down hard. I lose the urge to do anything but let myself enjoy what he’s doing. Stroking. Discovering. Shocking me to my core with how much I’m craving this.

My hips jerk ever so slightly of their own volition. I loosen my grip on his suit jacket, my palms pressing against the firm, solid wall of muscles as the onslaught of sensation threatens to overwhelm me.

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