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“Kiss me,” he says.
For a moment I wonder why he doesn’t just kiss me. Take me the way he wants. As evidenced by the massive erection he’s pointing in my direction.
“But only if you want to. I don’t want you to feel pressured.”
And then I realize, he doesn’t want me to simply let this happen between us. Or feel like I have to. He may have initiated the first move, the verbal invitation, but contact, physical contact, that’ll be up to me. And damn if him giving me the reins doesn’t make my need for him that much sweeter.
And I do want it. Him. Badly. Badly enough to call myself ten times the fool and not care. Badly enough that I raise my arms, dragging them up the sides of his body until my palms cradle his face and I lift on my tiptoes to bring my mouth to his.
Both of us groan on contact. Sweet, delicious contact. We devour each other, our tongues tasting, our breath mingling. It’s the hottest kiss in the history of the world. I’m not even being dramatic.
But I need more.
I step forward, aligning my body against his, and press.
For a moment, it relieves the ache, until it makes it worse. I feel like an addict who’s been given a taste but who wants the whole hit. I raise one leg and hook it around his hip, my hands grabbing his shoulders. This gives me the leverage I need to grind. And I do; I grind hard.
I’m grinding on Chase Moore, the owner of Moore’s, my new client. Specifically, I am grinding my soaked center across his thick, hard length in the elevator of his building. In the back of my mind, behind the fog of sexual insanity, I’m pretty sure I grasp how wrong this is. How stupid. But when my clit rubs over the length of his hard-on, I just don’t give a damn.
I’m so very tired of caring. Of holding myself back. Of masking key aspects of myself behind business verbiage and stoic expressions. I want to feel.
So I do. I feel his dick gliding across my clit with every circle of my hips. I feel the strength of his shoulders beneath my hands, and I feel the warmth spreading through my veins telling me that I am embarrassingly close to orgasm from simply dry humping in an elevator.
“Fuuuuck, Campbell,” Chase says, pulling his mouth away from mine to trail hot kisses down my throat.
Yes, right there. Kiss me there.
He grunts and kisses my pulse point harder, and I realize I spoke out loud.
His teeth nip under my ear as I swivel my clit once more over his hard-on. That’s all it takes.
“I’m coming, oh fuck, I’m coming…” I chant, my muscles seizing. He takes over, dry humping back, pressing his length over me as wave after wave hits me, prolonging my orgasm until my leg gives out. His arms wrap around me, holding me up.
It’s then that I realize I’ve been the one moving, humping, grinding, in essence, swiveling my hips like Elvis in Vegas, while his hands remained braced on either side of me, until now.
Embarrassment overrides the warmth of my orgasm. I just got myself off on my new client’s crotch, in his elevator.
Pulling back, I lower the leg hooked around his hip to the ground and find the courage to look him in the eye. And immediately wish I hadn’t. We’re both breathing hard, but while I’m sure I at least look satisfied, Chase’s mouth is pressed flat, and little lines of tension crease the sides of his eyes.
“I’m sorry.” My voice like a whisper.
His brows pinch, a look of confusion sliding over his face. “Baby.” The endearment catches in my heart. He slides one finger down the line of my jaw, stopping at the corner of my mouth. “Why in the world are you apologizing?”
“I—”
The elevator dings, and the doors glide open. Down the hall, Raymond’s eyes catch mine as he looks over Ben and Chris’s shoulders. Quickly, I disengage from Chase and duck under his arm still caging me in. I run my hands over my hair and smooth down my dress. By the time Ben and Chris turn around, I look somewhat presentable as I exit the elevator, though I’m walking toward them on shaky legs.
“What are you two still doing here?” My voice sounds a bit too cheerful. A bit too loud. Hopefully Ben and Chris don’t notice. I refuse to meet Raymond’s eyes, not wanting to see any censure from the conservative floor manager whom I’d taken an instant liking to.
“We were on our way out and met up with Raymond here.” Ben pats Raymond on the shoulder. “This guy is great. We should totally make him the face of Moore’s. What do you think?”
“I think Raymond might quit.” Chase smiles at Raymond’s stoic expression. “Not exactly your thing, is it, Raymond?”
I glance back at Chase, whose countenance seems much more relaxed than before as he strolls toward us. He’s taken off his suit jacket and has it draped over his arm, in front of his crotch. Knowing the reason why has my ears heating.
Raymond inclines his head. “Indeed, Mr. Moore.”
“Indeed,” Chris repeats, chuckling. “Are you sure, man? You are the definition of what Moore’s should be presenting to the public.” He looks Raymond up and down as the older gentleman lifts one eyebrow at Chris’s inspection, managing to look both superior and acquiescent at once.
