Page 62 of Some Like It Hott

It’s like he never made me fall apart in his arms and then held me, and my chest aches, reminding me that I’m in deeper than I want to be.

But that’s my own fault, for sure. It’s not like there was ever a reason to believe Preston would be interested in more than a little fun with me.

I’m staring down at the table, so I hear rather than see the door open. Then close again.

I heave a sigh.

Then I hear another, more unexpected, sound—asnick. I look up and find that Preston’s still on this side of the door, locking it. His eyes meet mine and hold.

Hang on. What…?

Now he’s drawing all the blinds on the meeting room windows, still watching me. His gaze hungry, predatory.

My spine goes hot and liquid.

He stalks toward me. Turns me in my swivel chair. Plants both hands on the table, on either side of me. Lowers his mouth to mine.

The sound I let out—small, broken—is equal parts raw lust and relief. He makes a matching sound, a rough, dark grunt, and kisses me deeper, like he’s trying to swallow me. Then he’s kneeling at my feet, drawing me to the edge of the chair.

“Very convenient choice of clothes,” he growls, gripping my calves. Sliding his hands up, up, over my thighs, under my loose skirt. I never wear skirts, but something made me put this one on this morning, some tiny hopeful single brain cell that pictured this very thing. He buries his face against the thin fabric of my lacy panties and breathes. Nips, the perfect small bite of pain on my tender flesh.

I moan, and he reaches a hand up to cover my mouth. “Shhh,” he says, hot air teasing through the lace, against my clit. “You have to be very, very quiet, or I’ll stop.”

“Don’t stop. Please,” I whisper, raking my teeth against his palm and drawing a hiss out of him.

“Not a sound, then.”

I obediently press my lips together under the seal of his big, warm hand, and he goes back to work between my legs. Sliding my panties aside, licking his finger before pressing it to my already swollen clit. Andohhh. He knows what he’s doing, starting light, watching my face closely until he gets the reaction he wants and then dialing in, right there, perfect pressure, testing all the possibilities: a featherlight up-and-down stroke; an almost-painful flick; a soft, spiraling circle, until he gets that just right, too, and I whimper, so turned on my hips are rocking in the chair.

He stops. “I said not a sound.”

I clamp my lips together.

“Are you going to be a good girl?”

I nod wildly.

He licks his finger again, and I throw my head back against the seat and arch my back, sounds fighting their way up my throat, but I won’t, I won’t, because oh, God, I don’t want him to stop—not what he’s doing now, perfect circles, perfect size, perfect pressure, and then, like that’s not enough, he takes the hand off my mouth so he can ease two fingers into my core, thick, curled, skillful, and I’m arching, shattering, mouth open in a silent scream, coming in thick glorious spasms against his touch, around his fingers.

31

Preston

Natalie coming on my fingers is my new favorite thingever.

I would like it to happen at least once per day, preferably several.

She eases herself into an upright position—having thrown herself back into the seat—and smiles at me. She’s wrecked—pink-cheeked, red-mouthed, glaze-eyed—and beautiful. I’d like to keep her like this all the time.

But she has other ideas.

“Switch places,” she says. She slowly stands, her legs still shaky—which I fucking love. “Sit.”

I raise my eyebrows at her.

“Preston,” she says. “Sit the fuck down.”

But I don’t, because I love the heat in her eyes right now, the spark in them, and I want to see what happens if I don’t. Instead, I suck my fingers, savoring her, and watch her pupils flare hot and appreciative.

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