Page 142 of Sexting the Boss

“Damien—” I whisper, breathless, the one word holding every ounce of frustration and longing.

He silences me with another fierce kiss, swallowing whatever else I was going to say. His teeth graze my lower lip, and I shiver, a wave of pure desire flooding me.

My pulse feels like a drum in my ears, and every inch of me is strung taut with want and anger and something that tastes suspiciously like need.

Damien’s hand slides beneath my thighs. With a quiet, guttural sound, heliftsme off my feet, and I gasp, wrapping my arms around his neck to steady myself.

He’s so much older than me—silver hair at his temples, the lines of his face sharper in the low light—and I can’t help a flicker of awe at how easily he handles me, how effortlessly his strength holds me up. It’s intoxicating.

Our mouths collide again, and he carries me toward the bed, stumbling slightly against a stack of books or something scattered on the floor. Neither of us cares. We’re a mess of tangling limbs and half-formed curses.

My back hits the mattress, the plush duvet sinking beneath me. Damien follows, his body covering mine, his hair brushing my forehead when he leans in for another searing kiss.

I sink my fingers into those silver and black strands, yanking him closer. His low groan vibrates through me, and I arch my body up, welcoming the press of his skin.

He breaks from my mouth, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down my neck—slow at first, then faster, as if he can’t help himself. My breath catches when his lips find my collarbone, teeth grazing just enough to send sparks dancing under my skin.

One hand skims my waist before sliding up to cup my breast. His thumb brushes my nipple, and I let out a shuddering moan, clinging to him like he’s the only solid thing in the world.

He presses his face to my chest, mouth finding one breast, then the other, his breath ragged. His tongue circles my areola, teasing until I gasp. Then he sucks, and I nearly lose it.

“Damien,” I gasp, voice trembling.

He doesn’t stop. He kisses and nips along my skin, taking his time even though the tension still hums with the remnants of our fight. There’s something desperate in the way he tastes me, like he’s trying to prove a point—both of us are, really.

I grip his shoulders, his muscles taut beneath my fingers. The silver hair at his temples glints, and I find myself oddly fixated on it—a reminder that he’s older, far more dangerous than any man I’ve known. But it just makes him hotter—that raw, forbidden edge.

He shifts lower, following the line of my ribs, pressing more wet kisses across my stomach. Each touch sends little shock waves of heat through me. When his mouth hovers near the top edge of my panties, I bite my lip so hard I taste copper.

For a moment, he looks up—storm-gray eyes locking with mine, unspoken questions and furious need swirling there. My heart clenches. I can’t speak. I can barely breathe.

Then, with a low groan, he slides up again, reclaiming my mouth in a bruising kiss. The shift in angle presses his body flush against mine—every inch of him hot and hard.

I let my hands roam his chest, marveling at how each labored breath feels. My fingers trace the lines of his abs, the light dusting of hair trailing down from his navel. He shudders when I scratch softly, muscles twitching.

“God, you drive me crazy,” he mutters against my lips, voice raw and thick with lust.

“Good,” I whisper back, fingers tangling in his hair again, pulling him closer. “Because you drive me insane too.”

He captures my lips once more, this time slower, gentler.

My legs part instinctively, welcoming his weight between them. The faint smell of him—woodsmoke, whiskey, something purely male—swirls around me, making me dizzy.

I roll my hips, arching up, searching for friction, for something to ground me in the madness. He gives it, pressing down, letting a low curse slip when our bodies align. The feeling of him, even through our remaining clothes, sends a jolt of liquid heat through my veins.

He breaks the kiss with a ragged inhale, then lowers himself, peppering hot, open-mouthed kisses down my throat. I shiver, arching beneath him, my body humming with anticipation.

My fingers clutch his hair—silver and dark strands slipping through my grip—while his lips travel lower. Each press of his mouth sends sparks dancing under my skin, leaving me breathless and dizzy with need.

He reaches my waist and grips my hips firmly, sliding down the last scraps of fabric standing between us. My legs tremble, blood roaring in my ears as he settles between my thighs, his breath hot against my sensitive skin.

“Damien…” I whisper, voice shaking. My hands fist in the sheets.

He doesn’t answer—just kisses the inside of my knee, slowly working his way up, leaving a trail of soft, tormenting warmth. When he finally reaches the spot where I crave him most, he pauses, glancing up at me with that storm-gray gaze.

I can’t look away.

Then, gently—almost reverently—he parts me, and his mouth finds my clit. My back arches off the bed with a sharp gasp, fingers immediately flying to his hair as the heat of his tongue sends a shock wave of pleasure through my body.

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