Again.
"I know," I manage to say.
"And?"
"And I have a meeting in a little over an hour that I can’t be late for." I pull my wrist free, but soften it with the hint of a smile. "We'll figure it out."
Disappointment flashes across his face, but he nods. "Yeah. We will."
I make it exactly halfway down the hall before I hear him behind me. Strong hands catch me by my hips and spin me around, pressing me against the wall before I can process what's happening.
"What—"
His mouth crashes into mine, cutting off whatever protest I was about to make. Not that I would have meant it anyway. His tongue pushes past my lips, tasting of coffee and mint andKasen, and I melt into him, my arms winding around his neck, pulling him closer.
He kisses me like he's drowning and I'm oxygen. Like he's starving and I'm food. Like he'll die if he doesn't have me. And I kiss him back just as desperately, just as hungrily.
His hands slide under my shirt, palming the curve of my waist, the swell of my belly, before moving higher to cup my breasts. They're more sensitive now, heavier, and when his thumbs brush over my nipples, I gasp into his mouth.
"I can't stop thinking about being inside you," he murmurs against my lips, his voice a low growl that vibrates through me. "About how wet you get for me. Only for me."
God.The man's going to kill me with his dirty words. My body's already responding, already aching for him, and we literally just had this conversation about needing some space to figure out what this is and?—
"Kasen," I gasp as he mouths at my throat, adding to his collection of marks. "I have to get ready?—"
"You will." His hand slides down to the waistband of my leggings. "After."
I should argue. I have responsibilities. A company to run. A reputation to maintain.
But then his fingers slip beneath the elastic and find me already embarrassingly wet, and coherent thought becomes impossible.
"Fuck," he groans against my throat. "You’re always so ready for me."
"Always," I admit, the word torn from somewhere deep inside me.
His fingers work magic between my legs, and my head thuds back against the wall. This is insane. I'm letting him finger me in his hallway in broad daylight like some hormone-crazed teenager.
His other hand tangles in my hair, tugging my head to the side so he can access more of my neck.
"I love seeing you like this," he says between kisses and gentle bites along my throat. "Swollen with my baby. Your body changing because of me." His fingers slide inside me, curling in just the right way to make my knees buckle. "Makes me want to keep you this way. Pregnant. Full of me."
The politically incorrect possessiveness of that statement should have me kneeing him in the balls. Instead, it sends me careening toward the edge, my hips rocking shamelessly against his hand.
"You like that," he observes, sounding entirely too pleased with himself. "You get wetter when I talk about putting another baby in you. When I tell you how fucking perfect you look carrying my son."
I whimper. Actually whimper. Who the fuck am I?
I’m beyond shame. Beyond pride. There’s only his hands on me, his voice in my ear, the pleasure barreling toward the breaking point.
"That's it," he says, his fingers moving faster, harder. "Come for me, Pink. Show me how much you love being mine."
And because my body is a traitor with no loyalty whatsoever, I do. I come with his name on my lips, clenching around his fingers while he swallows my cries with his mouth. He works me through it until I'm boneless against the wall, held up mostly by his body and sheer will.
When my brain comes back online, he's watching me with a mix of pride and something deeper that I’m really starting to like.
"Better?" he asks, smirking as he pulls his hand from my leggings and sucks my juices off his fingers.
"Shut up," I mutter, but I know he doesn’t take me seriously. It’s hard to be mad when your bones have melted.
