Perfect Grump (Bad Chicago Bosses)

Then I giggle like an idiot, breaking the kiss.

My cheeks could almost blister.

“Sorry,” I whimper.

“Why? You love to laugh, and I love the sound.” His chest swells with hot breath as he untucks my shirt from my pants and yanks it over my head.

I gasp.

“It’s a cold, rainy day. You’d better make good on warming me,” I tease, flicking my tongue against his lips.

“I’ll leave burn marks,” he snarls, moving us so he can wrestle himself out of his blazer and hang it over the back of my shoulders.

I’m suddenly grateful for just how roomy these fancy custom cars can be.

He stares into my eyes until his gaze shifts over my black sports bra—

Yikes. If I’d known this was coming today, maybe I would have bought the kind of bra Abby wears on date nights. She’s always been the adventurous one.

But his touch says it’s not my bra he cares about.

His hand roams my bare stomach, fingertips rubbing my skin, every vivid second searing me alive.

Those hungry fingers move to the base of my neck, slipping down my bra, over my belly, all the way lower.

His finger dips under the waistband of my black pants—destroyers of sanity—but he doesn’t go further.

Instead, his hand pops out of my pants and trails up my stomach, over the bra, up to my neck and down again with terrible intent. His thumb catches the edge of my bra, and with a hot glint, he pulls.

Sweet terrifying freedom.

Palming my breast, he presses the center of his hand to a pert nipple spilling over the top.

“Ooh.” I barely recognize my own moan.

“You want more?” he whispers, giving me a lust-crazed look.

God, do I ever.

But I can’t talk. I have to breathe. I have to—

In one rough jerk, he shoves the thick elastic bra band over my breasts, releasing them. They spill down into his hands, just as his hips power up, shoving his bulge against the fabric that’s barely separating us.

I fall into his mauling grip, wrapping my legs around his waist, diving into the firm ridge under me.

Nick covers my hard nipples with his hands, aiming his thumbs at their centers.

He tortures.

He teases.

He worships.

And when he lifts his head and pulls me down, shoving one unruly nipple into his mouth, a silent scream builds in my throat.

“Oh, Nick!” I’m almost freaking crying, bawling his name.

“Should I kiss you?” he rumbles, dragging the roughness of his beard over my breasts.

“P-please.” My head spins like I’m intoxicated, and my body goes boneless.

I don’t have words right now, but I know I want anything Nick Brandt can give.

“Here?” His tongue slides into my mouth, just long enough to miss it when he pulls away. “Or maybe you want it here.”

He places a hand under my breast, tilting it up as he bends his head down. Those teeth take my nipple, sucking harder, crueler, taking me apart with every tortured flick of his tongue.

Shit, shit, shit.

Even if I’ve never done it before, I know the sugar rush in my blood isn’t just first time fireworks.

It’s undeniably him.

Gasping, my hands clutch his head, pinning him in place.

The more he sucks, the louder I moan, ready to explode before we’ve even—

He pulls away.

“No!” I hiss, hating how he teases, even if I love it, too.

“Relax,” he mumbles, slowly and achingly bringing his mouth to my other breast.

I’m Reese putty in his arms.

He teases my other nipple, bringing me back to that white-hot zone. Then his hands move to his own shirt and I watch, transfixed, as he unbuttons it.

With his shirt open, I try to help him out of it, catching his sleeve in a tangled handful. He hasn’t undone the cuffs of his sleeves, and they won’t slide over his large hand still fastened.

Clawing at his cuff, I tear one button off by accident. It goes bouncing to the floor somewhere.

Nick laughs, those panther-like eyes beaming.

“Patience, sweetheart. I’m a pretty good teacher,” he whispers, pressing his scorching lips to my forehead as he undoes the other button.

I slide the shirt off, marveling at his naked chest.

He’s just the right kind of refined strength—the right kind of bad—an inked canvas of a man with raw muscle creased into dark tattoos. They’re painted on like he’s always ready for battle, always ready to conquer and leave a trail of destruction in his wake.

Today, I realize I might be one more ruined heap in the wreckage of his life. But it won’t be him who hurts me—not when that raging glint in his eye asks a question.

Can I worship you, darling?

His hands move to the button of my black pants as I shift my legs apart in answer. My back ripples, and not from the cold.

It feels like it’s ninety degrees in here and the windows are fogging up.

He works it open, slides the zipper down, and repositions me to remove them. His hand slides under my black panties and they come off too.