Page 29 of Sinful Beauty

“My parents met at the office. At that office.”

There’s something about the way he says it that adds a layer of romanticism to the idea that rationally I know doesn’t apply to us, but the notion is enough to muddy any clarity.

“No one has to know.” His words mirror my earlier thoughts.

“Just between us. We’ll keep it a secret?” I look up into those enigmatic eyes, searching for a promise.

“It’ll be our secret.” His fingers weave through my hair. His lips glisten and damn those eyes. The hunger in them speaks to me. “I want you. Do you want me?”

I’ve been attracted to this man since he walked into the pub as a stranger.

“Yes.”

His lips are back on mine, and he lifts me. My legs spread and wrap around his waist, as if they’ve done this a thousand times before. The ride up his body grazes me, teasing the building need.

My skirt tugs uncomfortably against my hips. His scruff scrapes my lips as I press them against his jaw and down his neck.

He moves through my space with supreme dexterity, and within seconds we’re at my bed. He pauses at the end of it.

“I’m beginning to see the advantages of owning one piece of furniture.”

I would laugh, but his gaze catches me, and the moment is too tense, too heated.

“If I set you down on this, we’re not stopping.”

“Zero to sixty?” It’s a phrase I read recently in an automobile advertisement.

“Exactly.” His lips press to my throat and he sucks. Christ. I feel the suction in my clit. He stops, then lightly presses his lips over the sensitized skin and nibbles. I want more, but he stops. His arms strain, holding me. And that gaze. It’s miraculously less intense. This time, he’s checking in. “Tell me now. Is this what you want? Because once I lay you down, I don’t see myself stopping until I’ve explored every single inch of you.”

He’s from another world, another class, and I want to experience him. This cultivated, sophisticated, executive.

“Do I get to explore every inch of you, too?”

The smile that spreads across his face is wider than I’ve ever seen, and for a brief second a carefree boy in university replaces the rakish, calculating sophisticate.

But by the time my back hits the mattress, the boyish expression is gone, replaced with fervent intention. His knee sinks into the mattress, and I push off, sitting up. I undo the belt, showing him I am indeed on board with this idea.

There’s no reason to hold back. I want him. I want to experience him. No one needs to know. I don’t work with him. By the time he’s in charge, I’ll probably have moved on. Or, hell, maybe we’ll remain close and he’ll help me with my job hunt.

My sweater hits the floor. His eyes go to my chest. Predictable. And empowering.

I come to him and, eyes locked with his, and unbutton his dress shirt. The material is high end, pressed and crisp. I tug the tails out of his trousers and push it over his shoulders as his mouth finds mine.

The shirt catches on his wrist and I break the kiss.

“Cufflinks,” he groans.

He watches as I figure the gold piece out. His chest rises and falls and I have to force myself to concentrate. I’ve seen these in magazines or on television, but never in person. It’s heavy. Maybe it’s real gold? This is Tristan Wagner. It might be solid gold. The piece falls loose and I flip it to the front. Imprinted on the flat front is a symbol I’ve seen before. A circle divided by semicircles.

“What does this mean?” I ask as I place it in his palm.

“It’s a symbol for integrity. Principle.”

“Good ideas.”

He slips the gold into his pocket and his fingers undo his belt. I take the hint and fumble with the zipper on the side of my skirt.

“Values,” he says. “My grandfather always said that a life lived without integrity is a life poorly lived.” He sits on the end of my bed and removes his shoes and his socks. I let my skirt fall to the ground and remove the trouser socks I put on before donning my boots.

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