Page 150 of Mile High Ruin

She notices. “You should probably stop doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Looking at me like you’re about to make another bad decision.”

I move closer again. “What if I already decided?”

She doesn’t back away. “That would be very on brand for you.”

My thumb moves slowly along her side, tracing the curve of her waist beneath the fabric, and she still doesn’t step away, which is all the answer I need.

“You have been avoiding me for days,” I say.

“Yes.”

“And now?”

She tilts her head slightly, pretending to consider it, though the pulse beating at the base of her throat gives her away. “I haven’t decided.”

I lower my mouth until it’s almost touching hers. “Decide.”

She kisses me first.

The restraint I’ve been forcing on myself for days disappears almost immediately.

My hand moves around the back of her neck while the other tightens at her waist, pulling her flush against me as her fingers twist into the front of my shirt. She kisses me with the same mixture of defiance and hunger that has become uniquely hers, opening for me without hesitation when my tongue moves against hers, and I feel the tension between us shift from argument into something far more physical.

I turn her toward the wall beside the terrace doors, pressing her back against it while I kiss down the line of her jaw and along the side of her neck, lingering over the places I already know make her breathing catch.

Her hands slide beneath my shirt. The touch of her palms against my stomach makes my muscles tighten, and when her fingers move lower, brushing the waistband of my trousers, I lift my head and look at her.

“Sloane.”

“What?”

“You know exactly what you’re doing.”

“Yes.”

There’s no embarrassment in her answer.

That makes it worse.

She sinks to her knees slowly, still looking at me, and the sight of her there in front of me, hair falling over one shoulder and mouth already slightly swollen from kissing, makes my cock hard before she even touches me.

Her fingers work open my belt, then my trousers, and when she frees my cock into her hand, the first slow stroke makes me exhale through my teeth.

She looks up. That expression almost finishes me before she starts.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I tell her.

Her mouth curves. Then she leans forward and takes the head of my cock between her lips.

My hand braces against the wall beside her as her tongue moves slowly around the tip before she takes more of me, one hand stroking what she can’t fit while the other settles against my thigh. She takes her time, drawing out every movement as though she knows exactly what it’s doing to me, and the combination of her warm mouth and the deliberate pressure of her hand strips away the control I usually take for granted.

I slide my fingers into her hair. But I don’t push her, or compel her to go faster.

She looks up again while my cock is still in her mouth, and I swear under my breath because there’s something obscene about the contrast between her composed face and what she is doing to me.