Page 96 of The Girlfriend Zone

“Reminds me of you.”

I’d like to say I’m strong enough to resist him. To walk away. To remember how utterly risky this is—for him, for others, and for me.

I’m only strong for a moment—a moment in which neither of us moves. My hand is on one end of the tie, his on the other. Then, in no time, our hands collide.

We clasp, and it’s like a match to kindling. We ignite in a fiery kiss. Holding on to his tie, I jerk him closer.

He ropes an arm around my waist, his other hand grabbing my jaw.

Our mouths explore, tongues skating, bodies pressing together. Need rockets through me. Then it shoots to the sky when his hand slides down my jaw, over my neck, and around my throat.

He doesn’t squeeze. It’s a gentle caress. I arch against his palm, a subtle way of asking for more.

His fingers curl a little tighter, but he still doesn’t squeeze. He just…holds me in place as he owns my mouth.

My hand climbs into his hair, sliding through that wild mess of locks, curling around his head. He groans, the sound raw and desperate, like he’s utterly lost to the sensation. Lost to the connection between us, crackling and snapping like twigs underfoot in a forest.

The sound drives me on. I tug on his hair harder, rougher.

“Fuuuuck,” he groans against my lips. But then he pulls back, letting go of my throat and my mouth too. He’s staring down at me, his eyes carnal, his mouth a hunter’s. “Leighton,” he says, his voice a warning.

I frown, my breath coming fast. “I know. You need to go.”

He shakes his head slowly, deliberately. “No. I need to touch you.” He lets go of my waist, tucking a finger under my chin and tilting my face toward his. His dark eyes holdmine, and his voice drops to a pleading rasp. “Let me. Before I go. Just fucking let me, baby. Please.”

It’s thepleasefor me.

No, it’s thejust let me.

Actually, it’s everything.

It’s the complete and utter despair in his voice over the thought of not having me. Pretty sure I didn’t have much resistance left in me, but any shred I might have had has vanished in his need. I need him too. More than I want to walk away.

I grab his wrist, checking the time on the watch. “You have eight minutes,” I say.

His lips curve into a wicked grin. “It. Is. On.”

Before I know it, he’s scooped me up and carried me to the side of the room where he sets me down, pressing my back to the wall.

In no time, he’s unzipping my jeans, pushing them down my hips and sliding a hand over my panties. He growls when he feels how ready I am. “You’re so fucking wet, Shutterbug,” he says, using that nickname so deliberately, as if saying he’s been thinking dirty thoughts every other time he’s said it.

Knowing that, deep in my dirty soul, makes me even wetter.

“That turned you on more, didn’t it? When I saidShutterbug,” he rasps out, cupping me, flicking a finger against the damp—now damper—panel of my panties.

“You weren’t kidding when you said you noticed everything,” I say, by way of answering him.

“With you, I really fucking do.” He drags his fingers to the top of my panties.

I steal a glance at his watch. “You’d better get moving, Mister Cocky. You’re down to seven.”

“You doubt me?” He sounds wickedly delighted.

“Let’s just say I’m the kind of girl who likes proof,” I tease, since this man seems to thrive on challenges.

His hand slips inside my panties, traveling down, then gliding over my wet pussy.

My breath hitches.

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