Switch (Landry Family 3)

THE CONTACT BREAKS SOME SORT of invisible barrier, not just the physical one. As our lips touch, the softness of his press against mine, his hands wrap around my waist. It’s as if a green flag is waved and we’re given the signal to go.

His kisses are deliberate. Each press, each lick, each time his tongue slides across my bottom lip is like a step in an intricate dance that I’m more than happy to let him lead.

I’m aware I’m being moved in a circle and feel the sharp bite of his desk dig against the back of my legs. When I pull back just enough to drag in a breath of air, one hand palms the back of my head, his fingers interwoven into my hair. He tugs back just hard enough to give me no choice but to look at him.

I’m putty in his hands, giving up some control in this moment. Strangely, I like it. No, I love it. It’s such a turn-on because I’m allowing it. My choice.

“Is this what you want?” Each word is clear, his question emphasized by the look in his eye. Like he wants to eat me up. Like he wants to straight-up devour me.

I am sure. I’ve been sure since I walked in to Landry Holdings the first day. Logic tells me to consider every possible way this could end terribly. With a decided finger, I hit the override button on the voice in my head and do what I’ve been pledging to do—live a little bit. At least the consequences, whatever they may be, are based on something I did because I wanted to. And I damn sure want to.

“This is probably against some sort of company policy,” I say, reaching up and working his tie loose.

“What do you care? You quit,” he grins mischievously. His hands cup my shoulders, kneading them back and forth before dropping down the blades of my back. As they lower, palms flat against the fabric of my dress, I’m inched closer to him.

“I gave you my intent to leave,” I utter. “That still makes me an employee.”

“Consider the handbook amended,” he blazes.

My breath is hot, my mouth watering to taste him again. I ache as he dips beneath the hem of my dress.

“Oh,” I draw as he grasps the backs of my thighs. The feel of his skin on mine in such an intimate area, just inches south of the tops of my legs, has my hands shaking just a bit as I pull his tie off his neck.

“Your skin is so soft,” he groans, his breathing rougher now, matching mine. “Damn it, Mallory. Why do you do this to me?”

I hold his tie up in the air, letting him see it, then toss it onto the desk behind me. “I feel even softer in other places,” I promise.

His chest rumbles almost menacingly. “What am I going to do with you?”

Undoing the top two buttons, I lean in and whisper against his ear, “I didn’t think you’d need a game plan laid out for you for this, Graham.”

As I fall back on my heels, he steps forward, his cock solid against my belly. I let a slight moan escape, one he doesn’t miss because Graham doesn’t miss anything. He grins in reaction, his hands determined as they torture me on their slow ascent up the backs of my legs.

One hand slips between my thighs, gently moving them apart and widening my stance. “I’m going to tell you one thing before this goes any further,” he growls, his fingertips searing against my skin.

“What’s that?” I nearly pant.

“I won’t pretend this didn’t happen once it does.”

“If you could, I didn’t do my job,” I breathe. The anticipation of what’s coming, of feeling him, of feeling him feeling me, becomes unbearable. Working frantically to undo the buttons lining his chest, I open my stance wider to give him access to whatever he wants.

As he re

aches my opening, his pupils dilate. “You aren’t wearing panties.”

“You’re quick.”

He growls. Suddenly, I feel him all over me, touching me everywhere, like he can’t explore my body fast enough. It staggers me as my senses try to analyze each and every touch.

His thumb glides over the opening of my pussy. He draws in a quick breath, gasping as he realizes just how wet I am for him. His hands skirt over my hips, palming my ass, the solidness of his cock digs into me as he nearly barricades me against his desk.

“Ah!” I moan as his hand lies against my vagina. It’s just enough contact to ramp up my desire by a thousand fold, but not enough to get me anywhere I’m desperate to go.

He grins as I rip his shirt open, working my hips to encourage him to touch me for real.

His chest is hard, his abs forming definite squares under the tanned skin. I shove the shirt off his shoulders and then drag my fingertip from his sternum all the way to the band of his pants.

The look in his eyes is ravenous but everything else is calm. Deliberate. Methodical. But when I undo the button of his pants and scoop my hand inside, cupping his thickness, it’s him that gasps.