Page 77 of The Confidentiality Clause
He grabs me by my hips and pulls me to him. I place my palms against his chest to catch myself. Our faces are centimeters apart. His eyes are a mesmerizing swirl of gold and brown.
“I think you don’t want to believe me because you’re scared of what it would mean if you do.”
“That’s not true. I’m just not sure that you’ve admitted how wrong you’ve been this whole time,” I say, because I can’t think straight when he’s so close.
“I’ll admit you were right about everything if you admit you were jealous of another woman kissing me.”
I gape. “I-I was not.”
He raises a brow. “Come on, Duke.” He hovers his mouth above mine. My face heats. “Admit it. The thought of someone else kissing me kills you. The same way it does me when I think about you with another man.”
I suck in a sharp breath at his admission. There it is. The answer to the question in my mind about how he felt, laid flat like cards on a poker table. Desire melts my core like hot caramel over a sundae. I stare into his eyes. I can see the hunger in them. The aching want that matches my own. And yet, as is our way, I can’t let him win that easy.
“It doesn’t bother me at all.”
“Liar.”
He crashes his lips into mine. I kiss him back as though I’d been waiting this whole time–maybe deep down I have. One of his hands slides up the curve of my spine to grip the back of my neck. The other presses hard into my lower back, forcing me to arch into him.
I pull back. “Stop manhandling me.”
“I will when you stop liking it,” he breathes out before capturing my mouth in another searing kiss.
I push him backward to prove that I can take control. He smirks against my lips as he hits the wall. My victory is short-lived, because he immediately flips us around so I’m the one pinned against the wall. His hands slide up and down the curve of my waist, and all thoughts of competition–of anything but him–melt away. He parts my lips with his tongue. The first tasteof him is bright and sweet, like biting into an orange slice at the start of spring.
His heart pounds against my palm. I savor the notion that it’s racing because of me. Brock’s fingers dig into my hips, eliciting a hum from deep within me. I lift my arms and push my hands through his hair, sifting through the silky strands.
The sound of a door slamming shut makes me freeze. Brock quickly breaks off our kiss and steps back. His hair is mussed and his eyes are wild and he’s breathing hard.
My eyes flick around the hall, but whoever interrupted us is already gone.
I press my fingertips to my swollen lips. Words fail me as I meet Brock’s molten gaze.
Chapter thirty-five
Brock Jones
I drink Ariel in. Satisfaction curls through me as I soak in every detail. The way she’s leaned against the wall like she doesn’t trust herself to stand just yet. Her hair coming out of her pinned updo. Her lipstick smudged around the edges. The picture is intoxicating. My eyes trace the curve of her body draped in wine-colored fabric, then I take a step toward her.
Her breath catches when I press my face into the curve of her neck.
“Brock,” she whispers.
I hum in acknowledgment, pressing a kiss below her ear. She grips my suit jacket.
“I-we should–” she stutters as I brush my lips over her jaw.
“If you’re going to say anything other than keep kissing, then I disagree.”
She lets out a breathy laugh. “We’re in the hallway of a hotel. My entire company is on the other side of those doors.”
“I don’t see any issues,” I murmur against her skin, making her shiver.
“We need to talk.”
“No one is stopping you.” I brush my lips over hers.
“I beg to differ.” She slides her hands up my arms and wraps them around my neck. “Not ten minutes ago, we were fighting. Shouldn’t we deal with things?”
