“I think dinner will have to wait until tomorrow now.”
“You’re not going to feed me?” She raises her brow, that sass she throws back.
“Oh, I’ll feed you, all right.” I raise my brow, too, suggestively.
“Oh my God.” She throws her head back, the sound of her laughter making me grin like a damn idiot. I’d do anything to hear that sound for the rest of my life.
I cup her face in my hands, kissing her deeply, and her fingers grip the front of my shirt. A subtle moan escapes her lips, pulling me back to stare into her eyes.
“I was going to wait until later, but I want to make love to you all over this damn house.”
“Mmm, tell me more.”
Desire glazes over her eyes when she peers up at me, waiting for me to continue. She’s told me before how she loves when I tell her what’s on my mind, so I do.
“Well, right now, I’m thinking about how I want to make love to you on that fluffy-ass rug in front of the fire. We can take a break and I’ll feed you some dinner. You’ll need it to keep up with me, then maybe we can go out on the patio and try that hot tub you were so eager to check out.”
When I suggested we come back up here to stay for our anniversary, she told me how she wanted another chance for us to re-create our first night spent together. We hadn’t realized they added a hot tub until we got here. Oaklyn made me promise to join her, and I agreed I would, as long as she was naked.
She pushes up on her tiptoes again, pulling me down to kiss her. It’s soft at first, growing with need when her mouth opens, and her tongue brushes over my lips.
I groan, reaching around to grab her thighs, lifting her. She circles her legs around my waist, her arms following suit. I turn, carrying her out of the room and down the hallway.
“Where are we going?”
“I can’t get the thought of you on the rug, spread open for me, out of my mind. I’ve been dying to touch you, to feel you wrapped around me since I walked into this damn room.”
She moans, grinding her pussy against me. My dick is so hard, it’s practically begging to burst free from the confines of my pants.
“Fuck, baby.”
Circling the chair, I move until we’re standing on the rug, and she loosens her legs. In one quick movement, she steps down and is on her knees before me, reaching for the button of my pants, sliding the zipper down.
“Oaklyn,” I breathe out harshly, my nostrils flaring.
“Yes.” She peers up at me. Those fucking eyes stare at me beneath her long, dark lashes.
I rub my thumb along her lower lip, tracing its plumpness. When she sucks it into her mouth, I mutter out a string of curse words, which only seems to encourage her more.
She lets go once my zipper is down, using her hands to tug my pants until they’re below my knees. Her eyes light up, a devious smile stretching across her face when she reaches out, wrapping her hand around my cock.
“Merric.” Her voice cracks, leaning forward to swipe her tongue over the head.
I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be able to take it, wanting to feel her tight heat around me.
“Lie back, baby.”
She releases me with a pop, and as much as I want to taste her, I need to feel her right now. She quickly slips her panties down and lies back, her arm running over the fluffy rug. She looks like an angel, and I can’t breathe at the sight of her spread open for me.
I kick off my pants and join her on the floor. Holding her leg up, I kiss a path from her ankle to the apex of her thigh. Her body trembles beneath my touch, her fingers reaching for my hair as she whispers for me to make love to her.
I rest on my forearms above her head, leaning down to kiss her while positioning myself at her entrance.
“I love you,” I whisper, pulling back to look her in the eye.
“I love you, too.” Tears gloss her eyes, her legs wrapping around my waist to hold herself to me while I thrust all the way in. “More than anything in this world.”
I don’t deserve her, this much I know, but I’ll spend every day of my life trying.
About the Author
Brooke O'Brien is an author of steamy and swoon-worthy contemporary romances. She believes a love worth having is worth fighting for, and she brings this into her stories where her characters risk it all for love. If Brooke's not writing or reading, she's probably spending time with her family, binge-watching the latest crime documentary, indulging in chocolate, or watching Hawkeye football or NBA basketball.
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I didn’t want to go to my company’s holiday party, especially not after Vaughn fucking Richards had the audacity to give the promotion I’d earned to his baby brother. Nepotism at its finest. I was a strong, independent woman with more experience and more success. The dude that took my dream job was fresh out of college and got the nervous sweats when addressing the room. Did I mention he was underqualified?
It didn’t help that my boss had also been starring in all my naughty fantasies for the last seven years. Between the unrequited attraction and the impenetrable glass ceiling, I’ve decided to leave to work for my friend’s start-up in California.
But, oh, I’m going out with a bang.
This holiday party has bottomless Bloody Marys, and I’m giving my two weeks’ notice with jingle bells on.
I just wasn’t expecting Vaughn Richards to be so determined to make me stay.
Chapter 1
“You look like you put a lot of effort into your appearance today, Sena,” Adam said, his expression blank. I grinned. That was basically a compliment coming from my best friend, and he wasn’t wrong. I had put in a lot of effort. Every day was a fashion show in the city, but today I took things an extra step. I wore a long sleeved, sequined red dress, black tights, and some designer heels. My faux fur coat was slung over the back of my chair, and my long black hair was up in a bun on top of my head. “But your face makes you look intimidating. Are you grinding your teeth? You know that’s very bad for you.”
At least the first part of his statement was half of a compliment. Adam meant well. He was just unapologetically honest and didn’t pick up on social cues. I forced a smile as I glared at the drink in front of me, willing my best friend to shut up. “Vaughn announced who got the promotion today,” I growled.
Adam went quiet for a moment, processing my words before responding. “Deductive reasoning tells me that you didn’t get the job, but the natural flow of this conversation dictates that I’m supposed to ask, regardless,” Adam said while staring at the bar top.
I met Adam when I moved to New York. He was sitting on a bench in Central Park, writing in his notepad. It was the only bench available, and my feet were killing me. I wasn’t about to sit on the freezing ground, so I sat by him. I’ll never forget how he scooted as far away from me as possible the moment my ass hit the seat. Before becoming a true New Yorker who didn’t give a shit, I considered myself to be chronically polite, so I asked him what he was working on. I wasn’t expecting him to be so talkative. Adam went into an hour-long monologue about a physics class he was taking at NYU. He lived in Brooklyn and was as loyal as they came. I liked Adam. He was good to me—sometimes a bit too honest, but still good to me. He was never late for our meetups. He always made sure I got home safely and texted me about the weather every morning to make sure I was properly dressed—a habit he started when I first moved here and he was annoyed with my lack of preparedness. The only reason I brought an umbrella with me most days was because Adam pestered me about it.