Page 13 of His to Command

Hudson stands abruptly, pacing to the window and back. The controlled exterior cracks, revealing something volatile beneath. "You don't believe that."

"It doesn't matter what I believe. There are rules?—"

"I make the rules," he growls, stopping directly in front of me.

I stand too, refusing to let him loom over me. "Not for me. Not for this."

We're inches apart, both breathing hard, the pretense of professional distance finally shattered. His eyes drop to my mouth, and something molten pools in my belly.

"Tell me you don't want this," he challenges, voice low. "Tell me you don't think about it. About me. Tell me you don't feel this...thing between us."

I open my mouth to deny it, to recite HR policies and professional boundaries, but the lie sticks in my throat. Because he's right. I do think about it. About him. About his hands on me, his mouth claiming mine. I've thought of little else since that first moment in the boardroom when his eyes found mine.

My silence is answer enough.

"Robin," he says, my name both question and demand.

And then his mouth is on mine, hard and hungry and claiming. His hands cup my face, holding me still for the onslaught of his kiss. For one second, I'm frozen in shock. Then something inside me breaks loose—all the desire I've been suppressing, all the need I've been denying.

I kiss him back. My hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer. He growls against my mouth, the sound primal and possessive. His tongue demands entrance, and I grant it, letting him taste me, devour me. We're both beyond restraint, beyond reason.

He backs me against the conference table, lifting me onto it with embarrassing ease. Documents scatter, flutter to the floor. I don't care. His hands move to my waist, my hips, spanning them with possessive heat.

"Do you know," he says against my mouth, "how long I've wanted to do this? Since that first moment in the marketing meeting. You looked up, and something in me just...recognized you."

His words unlock something in me—permission to admit my own obsession. "I couldn't stop thinking about you," I confess, breathless. "Even when I tried."

He groans, capturing my mouth again. His hands find the buttons of my blouse, impatient, tearing one in his haste. The sound of it popping free, skittering across the table, should alarm me. Instead, it inflames me further.

"I'll buy you a hundred more," he promises, pushing the fabric from my shoulders.

I should be embarrassed—my practical cotton bra is nothing like the lingerie women probably wear for men like him. But the sound he makes when he sees me, the naked hunger in his eyes as he takes in the curves I've kept hidden, erases any self-consciousness.

"Beautiful," he breathes, hands cupping my breasts through the fabric. "So fucking beautiful."

His mouth moves to my neck, my collarbone, the swell of my chest above my bra. Each kiss brands me, marks me as his. I arch into him, shameless in my need. My fingers fumble with his shirt buttons, desperate to feel his skin against mine.

"Hudson," I gasp as his teeth graze a sensitive spot on my neck.

"Say it again," he demands, hands sliding beneath my skirt, finding the bare skin of my thighs.

"Hudson," I repeat, the name a plea on my lips.

His hands tighten on my thighs, spreading them wider so he can stand between them. The position is wanton, exposed, thrilling. I feel the hard length of him pressing against me through layers of clothing, and primitive need courses through me.

"I've imagined this," he confesses roughly, fingers tracing the edge of my underwear. "You, spread out for me. Wanting me."

"I do," I admit, past the point of pride or pretense. "I want you."

Something dangerous flashes in his eyes—triumph, possession. He captures my mouth again as his fingers push aside the fabric barrier and find the wet heat of me. I cry out at the contact, hips bucking involuntarily.

"So responsive," he murmurs against my throat. "So perfect."

His fingers stroke, explore, learn what makes me gasp and tremble. I cling to his shoulders, nails digging in through his shirt as pleasure builds, tightens. It's too much, too fast, too intense.

"Hudson, please?—"

"Please what?" His voice is dark with need. "Tell me what you want, Robin."

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