Damaged Grump (Bad Chicago Bosses)

“Careful.” Callie’s lower lip sticks between her teeth again. “Your dastardly rake act is starting to slip. Next I’ll start thinking you’re actually a decent guy.”

“Don’t ever make that mistake, Miss Landry,” I grumble, wagging a finger. “I am nothing of the sort and you know it.”

Fuck.

There it is again.

That electric spark in the silence between us, this sizzle in the air I can practically hear.

She slides a veiled glance toward me under her lashes. Her mouth still captivates me with the press of her teeth into the soft flesh of her lower lip.

I catch myself leaning her way—only to realize she’s leaning toward me, too, the curve of her body sinuous, her cheeks flushed.

“I think,” she murmurs, “that you’re a far better man than you give yourself credit for.”

“Then let me dispel that horrible notion,” I growl, pushing myself up to meet her.

The distance between us closes with the fierceness of a cloud-to-ground strike.

Her mouth.

Her fucking unruly tease of a mouth will drive me insane if I keep letting it.

Enough.

I take control, capturing her lips with my own like I can punish those insolent lips for ruling my thoughts, making it impossible for me to focus on anything else.

She tastes like hickory drenched in honey and whiskey, raw and hot and intoxicating.

Her mouth surrenders to mine in a low moan as I tease her, take her, tracing my tongue along her mouth and sucking her lower lip just to feel it fucking give.

Mine, dammit.

Mine.

How can a kiss be so greedy?

I wonder if it’s because she needs it as badly as I do.

Her fingers curl in my tie and pull me in with a whimper, her breath hot against my cheeks, and I can’t fucking stop.

Not when I seize her waist, drag her across my desk, and pull her until she’s exactly in the position I’ve been craving.

Caught between ten seething inches of my single-minded cock and the desk, her sleek thighs spread with my rough hand, her knees pressed against my waist as I thrust against her like a storm wind.

She rocks back against my desk, a spill of red petals against the white paper lying on wood.

Snarling, I loot her mouth, feeling every corner.

And even if I’m the one rampaging through her, Callie Landry is a fucking arsonist.

I feel every touch, every caress. I make her arch under me, her body against mine.

I stop fighting and just burn.

Burn like a damn bonfire.

Is this what it’s like when a person loses their mind?

Is it all fire?

All smoke?

All screaming red obsession?

I have to keep my hands to myself.

I have to, bracing them against the desk to either side of her. That doesn’t stop me from sweeping my body against hers, making her feel what she does to me.

Goddamn.

She’s flaying me open with those soft, wet brushes of her tongue, with those heady sounds caught in the back of her throat, with the way her hips rub helplessly against mine.

Every motion leaves me too painfully aware of just how dangerously hard I am against my slacks, trapped between us, throbbing with the need to claim her needy pussy like the brute in a suit I am.

Forget harmless flirting.

The stakes are life and death now.

This woman will kill me where I stand—barely—if I’m not careful.

Guess what?

I’m starting not to care.

It’s not desperation to touch her that makes me stop.

It’s the harsh need for air, the two of us gasping shallowly. When my chest feels close to splitting, I tear back, looking down at her.

She’s under me with her chest heaving, her hellfire lips parted and swollen, the lipstick half-rubbed off and smeared by my attack on her mouth.

Fuck, do I love ruining her.

I want to make her my mess.

I also love the carnage in her glowing eyes. They’re glazed and dilated, framed by all that gorgeous blue-streaked auburn hair spilling across my desk.

She looks freshly debauched, but I know she isn’t.

Not yet.

Not until I’ve shot my come in that mouth.

Not until we’ve gone all the way.

She’s so deliriously tempting I could die ten times.

I listen as she draws in a sharper breath, her eyes popping like her soul just snapped back into her. Her cheeks flush deeper, and she stares up at me with this dreamy look.

I’ve still got her pinned down for good measure.

She doesn’t struggle, but there’s a stiffness to her body that tells me it’s time for this to end.

Because she apparently has more human sense than I do.

For a moment, she reaches up to touch me with shaking fingers, tracing my hungry mouth.

It’s insane how she makes my gut wild with such a gentle touch. Then she draws back with her hand stained pink by the lipstick rubbed off against my mouth.

Her smile is weak, almost sad.

“...that didn’t happen, either,” she whispers.

I close my eyes.

I need a minute.

Anything to break the connection.