Page 52 of Baby For My Ex's Brother

The waitress returns with a sleek black bag containing our unfinished Tarte Tatin, and Liam stands, effortlessly slipping into his role as the man in charge as he helps me from my chair. His touch lingers just a moment too long on the small of my back, sending a shiver of anticipation down my spine.

As we exit Le Noblesse, the cool night air does little to quell the heat coursing through me. We're crossing a line—one that promises to alter everything.

Having careless sex on a business trip was one thing. Liam claiming me in his office last night was another.

But now he’s letting me into his life, into his apartment, into his bed… and maybe into his heart.

And despite every rational thought telling me to tread carefully, I’m ready to give him everything.

Chapter twenty-one

Liam

The cab rolls throughthe streets, slick with the evening drizzle, and I'm acutely aware of every inch of Shiloh’s skin pressed to mine. Her breath is even, and a faint scent of her perfume mixes with the rain-soaked city air filtering in through the cracked window.

I can't stand it—the distance, mere inches, feels like miles.

"Shiloh," I whisper, my voice barely above the hum of the cab's engine. The sound of her name on my lips feels like fire, and it's all I can do not to pull her into me right here, right now.

With a practiced ease that belies my racing heart, I let my hand fall onto her thigh, acting as if I'm merely steadying myself as the cab takes a sharp turn. But then, purposefully, slowly, my fingers inch their way up, tracing the curve of her leg.

I feel the heat radiating from her before I reach the hem of her skirt. It's ambrosia—this hidden, forbidden warmth—and I want more.

"Lean on me, sweetheart," I murmur, the words rough with desire. "I'll give you some relief... just don't let it show."

Her thigh trembles under my touch, and when my fingers slip higher, teasing the edge of her panties, I find evidence of her arousal—a dampness that sends a jolt straight to my cock. She shifts slightly towards me, her body unconsciously seeking my touch, and it's all the permission I need.

I keep a lookout for the cab driver, making sure his eyes stay glued to the road. The last thing we need is an audience or, worse, to get thrown out onto the street. My ego couldn't take the hit, and neither could the fierce need clawing at my insides.

"Good?" I ask, voice low, as I caress her through the fabric, feeling her pulse quicken.

“So good,” she replies, breath hitching.

There's no going back now. Not that I'd want to.

Shiloh bites her lip, silencing the sounds threatening to spill from her. I can feel her restraint, her struggle to stay quiet—it's like a live wire under my fingers.

With every stroke, every gentle press, she quivers, and I have to remind her, "Hush now. We don't want to end our ride on the pavement."

The cab's suspension is no match for Boston's streets, and each bump aids my cause, sending my fingers deeper, her body rocking subtly against them. It's an exquisite torture, doing this here, where anyone could see if they looked close enough.

"Keep still," I whisper, though it's an impossible command. Her control is slipping, just like mine.

And then, with a precision honed by desire and the knowledge of exactly what makes her unravel, I bring her to the edge. She's breathing hard now, her chest heaving, her face buried in my neck as she clings to me. I can feel her pulse racing against my skin, the sweet scent of her hair filling my senses.

"Let go, Shiloh," I coax, my own voice strained with need. "Just let go."

With one final push, she shudders, her body tensing before waves of pleasure wash over her. Her nails dig into my shoulder through the fabric of my suit, a silent cry caught between us. She's trembling, her face pressed so close to my neck that I can feel the rush of her breath, hot and erratic.

"Good girl," I murmur, kissing her temple as she comes down from the high. Pride swells within me—pride and something far more dangerous that I'm not ready to name.

I've never wanted to protect and possess someone as much as I do her right now.

The cab halts smoothly in front of my brownstone—an elegant, old-world structure that stands like a sentinel amidst the charm of Beacon Hill. I slide out of the car, feeling the crisp night air brush against my skin, ghosting over the heat that still simmers from our encounter. My hand reaches for Shiloh; her fingers are delicate yet strong as they slip into mine.

"Come on," I say, voice low and steady.

With her hand in mine, we climb the stone steps leading to the front door. The click of her heels on each step rings out like a subtle prelude to what's about to unfold within these walls.

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