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He’s beckoning me.
Oh, Jesus.
It’s instinctive to smooth down my hair, straighten the front of his sweater as I rise to my feet and trudge to the glass door. He’s there to open it for me, and I skulk past him, well-aware of his eyes burning into my side profile.
“I wasn’t like, stalking you or anything,” I garble, digging my nails in the palms of my hands, “I was just walking around, looking at all the flowers. I didn’t realize there was another room back here. Is it your office? It’s nice, very manly, I like the oak—”
“Breathe,” he interrupts, mouth twitching.
I let out a hiss of breath. “Sorry.”
“And stop apologizing.”
“Sorry—I mean, okay.”
I take advantage of the lull in conversation and assess the office. One glass wall looks into the tropical garden, and the other, at the back, looks out to the real world, sprawling green fields as far as the eye can see.
“I tasted you to see if I could stop.”
My head snaps around so fast I’m surprised I don’t have whiplash. “Uh,” I stammer, blood rushing to my cheeks. “I’m sorry?”
“I told you to stop apologizing.” He crosses the room, coming to a stop dangerously close to me. He lowers his voice, eyes dusky. “I needed to know that I still have some sort of self-control when it comes to you.”
My heart hitches. “And do you?” I choke out.
Those cold eyes penetrate my goddamn soul. “You’re nervous,” he drawls, ignoring my question—no surprise there. “More nervous than the day I found you tied to a radiator in the Van der Boors penthouse. You don’t strike me as someone who gets nervous.” He reaches out and traces a gentle finger over the curve of my lip. They part for him instinctively, like his blazing touch holds the magic word.
“You make me nervous,” I murmur, closing my eyes as his finger moves from my mouth to along my jawline.
“You told me you wanted this.”
“I do,” I whisper, before lazily opening my eyes to meet his gaze. “You make me nervous in a good way,” I admit.
He stares at me for a moment longer. Then, he licks his lips.
“Take your clothes off.”
My heart slams against my chest and I meet his challenging stare. “Uh, here?” I squeak.
“Now.”
Adrenaline bursts in little spheres inside of my stomach, fueling every move I make. I start with his sweater, slipping it over my head, before unbuttoning my denim cut-offs and letting them fall to the floor. Once I’m in my underwear, he’s still waiting, so with trembling hands, I peel off my bra and panties, letting them join the puddle of fabric on the floor.
There’s a growl in his chest. Deep and primal. He drags his eyes from mine and studies all of my features, above and below my collarbone. Each unapologetic, lingering stare leaves a scorched trail over every square inch of my exposed flesh. My nipples stiffen, my pussy clenches, and a ripple of goosebumps rises to the surface.
Men have leered at me like this my entire adult life. Usually, I fight it.
But with Cillian… his leer is different. There’s no cruelness, no menace behind his eyes.
Just a cocktail of pure lust and animalistic instinct.
It makes me feel powerful.
And really fucking horny.
He leans back against his desk. “Get on your knees,” he rasps.
I do as I’m told, sinking to the floor. I’m eye level with his bulge.
