On My Knees (Stark International Trilogy 2)

Every part of my body seems to be connected by criss-crossing strands of red-hot wire. From my breasts to my lips, to my belly, to the soft skin of my inner thighs, and to my wet and needy cunt. “Jackson.” His name is a moan, forced out past my gasps of pleasure as I arch against his mouth, my breasts so wild for his touch they hurt.

He lifts his head, leaving me feeling bereft. The sensual caress of cool air against my now damp breasts is like a tease, and dammit, I want more. I want to beg, but can only manage a whimper, and I clutch the desk to give me leverage as I shamelessly grind against him, wanting to increase the pressure against my clit even as I silently beg him to just please fuck me.

We’re both wild. Crazed. This isn’t about sex or love or even passion. It’s about need. It’s about release.

It’s about taking what we need from each other. Hard and fast and very, very thoroughly.

His hands are on my skirt and he is shoving it up until it is nothing more than a linen ring around my waist. He rips my shirt the rest of the way open, and the muscles of my stomach tighten as cool air brushes my overly heated flesh. His mouth settles again between my breasts, and I writhe beneath him as he kisses his way down my abdomen, my skin tightening and tingling with each erotic touch.

When he reaches my navel, his tongue dips into the indentation, and I suck in air through my teeth even as my body clenches in response to this unexpected erogenous zone. He continues down, breaking contact only to slide over the bundle of material that was once my favorite skirt but is now a hated barrier between my flesh and his mouth.

For a moment I feel nothing except the gentle press of his hands on my hips to hold me in place. I start to lift my head, but his simple “No” halts me.

“Please,” I beg.

“Please what?” I hear the tease in his voice and can’t help my answering smile.

“Fuck me.” Just saying the words makes me even more wet. I’m certain my panties are drenched—more than that, I am certain that he can see just how aroused I am. Rather than embarrass me, though, the thought only makes me more excited, and I spread my legs just a bit more in a silent admission. I want you, Jackson. And oh, dear god, I need you.

He exhales, and the noise he makes is both a confession and a seduction. I melt in response, mind and body relenting fully to his touch. He kneels between my legs, his mouth even with the lowered edge of the table—and with my cunt. His soft breath teases me, like the most sensual of promises. And when his lips tease the soft flesh of my inner thigh, I have to turn my head and bite my lower lip to hold back the wild current of desire that threatens to shake me to the core.

While his mouth is busy on my leg, one hand has slipped to my panties. He teases aside the thin, damp patch of material that forms a negligible crotch, then glides the pad of his thumb over me. He doesn’t penetrate, and my body clenches in protest against that denial of sensation.

His mouth moves closer to my core, and without any warning, he takes my legs and lifts me so that I slide down a bit on the table even as he hooks my knees over his shoulders so that his mouth is right there, and I am spread out on his work table, my skirt hiked up and my hands clenching the side of the desk in a futile defense against this assault on my senses.

I am still wearing my shoes—an expensive pair of heels that I bought on a recent shopping spree—and somehow that one detail drives home to me what it is we’re doing. And where exactly we’re doing it.

“Jackson—oh, god, Jackson, stop.” His tongue teases me along the band of my panties. “The walls—the glass. Anyone can see.”

“Let them.” His words are little more than a growl, and as soon as he’s spoken them his mouth is back on me. He uses his finger to pull the crotch aside and attack me with his tongue. I shiver with excitement—both from the way he is so wickedly teasing me and from the possibility of getting caught. Slim, I know, considering this floor is Jackson’s domain alone and isn’t even fully built out yet. But even had the floor been bustling, I don’t know that I could have moved away. Or that I would have wanted to. I’m too far gone. Too lost.

I don’t care about anything but having him. Submitting to him. To giving myself entirely to Jackson, this man who has always been able to take me where I never even knew I wanted to go … but never so far that I can’t find my way back to the familiar.

And now I am so sensitive and close that I hook my ankles together and pull him in, wanting him harder. Deeper.

He takes me right up to the edge—my mind swirling, my body writhing—and then he pulls gently away.

“Jackson—what—no. Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”