Page 81 of Sexting the Boss

But there’s nothing rational about this.

About the way my body is burning under his touch.

About the way his mouth feels like a drug I never want to quit.

Another button pops open, his fingers skimming against the top swell of my breasts.

He groans, his lips breaking from mine only to trace along my jaw, down my neck, sucking at the sensitive skin just below my ear.

I whimper, my hands fisting in his shirt, tugging him closer, needing more.

His breath is hot against my throat, his voice a low growl.

“You have no idea,” he murmurs, his teeth grazing my skin, “how long I’ve wanted to do this.”

I shudder, my entire body unraveling. I feel him everywhere. His hand tangles in my hair, tilting my head, deepening the kiss until I’m light-headed, desperate, aching. I clutch at his shirt, fisting the expensive fabric, pulling him closer even though there’s no space left between us.

But it’s not enough.

Not even close.

His hands move, trailing down my spine, gripping my hips, lifting me onto the edge of the sink.

“You sound so fucking sweet when you moan for me,” he murmurs, his voice low, rough.

His hands push my blouse open, his fingers brushing against my bare skin, sliding down to cup my breasts through the lace of my bra.

I arch into him, my thighs tightening around his waist as his thumbs stroke over my nipples, teasing, coaxing.

“Damien,” I gasp, barely recognizing my own voice.

His name sounds filthy on my lips.

His eyes flick up, locking onto mine as his thumbs roll over my stiff peaks, his touch pure torture. “Say it again,” he commands, his voice thick with need.

“Damien,” I whisper, breathless, desperate.

He groans, his hands gripping my thighs, spreading me wider.

His mouth moves lower, lips trailing down my chest, pressing open-mouthed kisses over the swell of my breasts before he tugs my bra down, exposing me to him.

The moment his mouth closes over my nipple, I gasp, my head falling back. His tongue flicks, slow, deliberate, before he sucks hard, his teeth lightly scraping against me.

I cry out, clutching at his hair, my body burning under his touch.

One of his hands trails lower, gripping my waist, then moving between my legs.

My breath catches.

His fingers slide up my thigh, pushing my skirt higher, until he reaches the thin scrap of lace covering my core. His hand cups me through my panties, his fingers pressing firmly against my aching cunt.

“You’re soaked,” he mutters, his voice thick with dark satisfaction.

I whimper, hips rocking into his touch, desperate for more, desperate for him to push inside, to ruin me right here against the sink.

He strokes me slowly, his fingers teasing, not enough but too much all at once.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve been doing to me, printsessa?” he murmurs against my skin, his breath hot as his fingers stroke over me again, this time pressing harder.

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