Page 85 of Obsession

“I’m notwhoyou think I am.”

I frowned and gripped his wrist. Open up a trade magazine and anyone knew who Blake Carson was. Brilliant, withdrawn, and with a drive to succeed that rivaled the late Steve Jobs. He had to have been all of that in order to become a billionaire before the age of thirty.

Hadn’t he?

Did he mean what he’d done to get where he was? His domination of the industry had been fast and relentless.

But I couldn’t think. Not with him crowding me.

His hold was almost unbearably tight. It made me feel alive, and I needed that. I was so tired of feeling numb and lost.

I loathed that it was Blake who had brought me into this moment, but I was too starved to say no.

When it was over—when our skin cooled—I’d have to face the numbness and the secrets again. The questions that plagued me.

Right now? I didn’t give a shit.

I pushed him back a step and wrapped his tie around my fingers. “This way.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Iturned and dragged him forward. His nostrils flared, but he followed. When he figured out where I was going, his shoulders relaxed a fraction, but not his face.

No, that intensity was ever-present when I touched him.

I wondered if my own was the same.

We went down a hallway that was nearly camouflaged from the blinding white of the walls. There was a tiny nook of space with a door that led to the framing room. I reached behind me for the sliding door, opening it and pulling him inside.

Just a few minutes.

It was all I could spare, and all I could really survive.

He slid it closed, and the lock of the door seemed so loud. Would everyone know I was back here?

I released his tie, backing up until I bumped into the framing table. Canvas and matte board scattered under my palms.

Blake strode across the small space in three strides. He tore at his tie and three buttons opened. Tanned flesh and sepia slashes swirled over his chest. He lifted me up and planted me on the table.

I couldn’t stop myself.

I needed to touch. I leaned into him, and his warm, spicy orange scent hit me just before my tongue swiped over his skin. He gripped my hair, directing my aim upward.

But I wasn’t through with him. Not here, not in my space.

Iwantedto touch him. Especially his skin.

Craved to.

I pushed open his shirt and snapped out of his hold. I looked up at him as I curled the tip of my tongue over his nipple.

His fingers dug into my neck, but he let me coast around the firm muscles and the dip of stretched landscape to the center of his chest. Smooth. Flawless save for tiny little scars here and there. I traced my nail over the cartography and the tiny numbers of longitude and latitude that were almost burned into his flesh.

At least the tattoo made it look that way. So delicate and so rich in artistry. And always covered. I wanted to rip open his shirt and see it all.

I tugged out his shirttails and pushed the fabric off his shoulder.

God, so much more to see.

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