I’m greedy for more. My hands run up his abs to his chest.
“I’m not going to tell anyone,” I say, stroking muscles that are rock hard.
He grits his teeth. His nostrils flare. It’s like stroking a bull, one who’s holding completely still. “Good. Why are we talking about that right now?”
“Because I’m going to sign your NDA.” I don’t do it with a pen and paper. And I sure as hell don’t accept hush money. No, I draw my name in large, languid swoops across his abs and chest. I use my full name, the way I usually sign. Eva Honorata Morelli.
“Fuck,” he says.
Then I lean forward and lick one flat nipple.
He mutters his appreciation in a way I find too charming for words. “Lock you up and throw away the key. That’s the only thing for you. You’re going to start a riot.”
Despite the heavy desire drenching my body, I find enough self-possession to give him a haughty look. There’s power in making a man want you. “You’re the only man here.”
“You think I’m not going to walk all over this?” he says, the backs of his fingers brushing the insides of my thighs. Then he reaches my sex. He rubs the thin gusset of my panties, and I hiss out a breath. “You think I’m not going to wreck this?”
“I think you could try,” I manage in a pert voice.
Challenge lights those hazel eyes. And pleasure. “Mouthy.”
“You like it.”
“I’m fucking dying for it,” he says, dropping to kneel by the desk. My breath catches. Everything that happened years ago felt shocking to me. Illicit. Now I know that it was relatively tame. We never did this, for example. I’m nervous, suddenly. I don’t know how I’ll taste. I don’t know if he’ll like it. I don’t know—
He pushes aside the silk of my panties. His mouth presses my pussy. His tongue does something slick and hot, and then my eyes are rolling to the back of my head. A keening sound escapes me. He finds my clit with unerring precision, and I jerk my knees together. It’s too much. Too intimate. Too real. Strong hands hold my thighs apart, helpless for his invasion.
Then he slides his tongue in a circular motion. Suction makes my hips lift off the desk. I reach down to grasp his hair in my hands. I need something to ground me, to connect me to this man. I tighten my grip so he knows the sweet agony he’s causing me.
He chuckles against my sensitive flesh. “Patience, sweetheart.”
“Go to hell,” I gasp out as he slides his tongue from bottom to top.
“Working on it,” he murmured against my clit.
The vibration sends pleasure spiraling through my body.
There are papers beneath my head. They rasp against my hair, so thin and yet unmistakable. More documents, probably. Contracts. Obligations.
None of that matters right now.
He works my clit until I’m just about to come. And then he slows down at the crucial point. The first time I think he doesn’t know. The second time, too. The third time I realize he’s doing it on purpose.
“Bastard,” I say on a low moan.
He stands, his expression hard with passion. I’ve never seen his handsome features so severe. I’ve never seen his eyes so dark. Hunger. That’s what’s making him this way. Need.
Two fingers slip inside me, and I rock my hips, begging and wordless.
Desire rises heavy in the air, but there’s something else, too. Something sweet. Like the scent of honeysuckle on a humid summer night. The distant flicker of fireflies. A memory that’s all too fleeting. That’s how he makes me come, with his fingers inside me, his thumb on my clit, the moment slipping away no matter how hard I try to hold on.
Chapter Twelve
Finn
I’m answering an email from the VP of Product when my secretary knocks. She stands at the door to my office, a stack of folders in her arms. There’s an odd expression on her face.
“Yeah?” I say, still distracted by this earnings projection.
“Your brother’s here.”
My brother. I close the email. It’s going to have to wait. “Send him in.”
There’s no point in wondering what happened. I know what this is about.
From the expression on Hemingway’s face, my suspicions are correct. He’s been kicked out of Pembroke Prep. Again. He strolls into the room, hands in his pockets. “Hey, big brother.”
“Hem,” I say, my voice even.
He drops into a chair across from my desk and kicks his feet into the opposite one. “Don’t give me that look. The one that says: I’m not angry, just disappointed.”
My eyebrows rise. “Should I be angry?”
He grins. “Definitely not.”
“Why don’t you tell me what you did and I’ll decide?”
He drops his head back, and from this weird angle I can see the resemblance to our father. I know I sounded bitter to Eva, bitching about my future. It’s not mine that bothers me. It’s my brother. My father was interested in raising me as his heir. My mother checked out after his symptoms grew intense. There weren’t any parents left for Hemingway. I’ve had to step in, and I’ve done a fairly shitty job, considering he keeps getting expelled.