When he realizes I’m not fighting him or trying to push him away, he moans into my mouth, moving one hand to encircle my throat and burying the other in my hair.
He pulls my head back and kisses me deeper.
The kiss goes on until I’m delirious. My breasts feel heavy and begin to ache. Heat pulses between my legs. My heart is a trapped bird beating frantically against the cage of my chest, and my mind is empty except for a drunken, repeated chant of yes yes holy mother of god YES.
He rocks his hips into mine so I feel the whole hard length of his cock, throbbing insistently, as demanding as his mouth is.
Even when I sag against him, weak and mewling, he refuses to let me go.
Just as I’m sure I’m going to pass out, he breaks the kiss abruptly and puts his mouth next to my ear. Breathing hard, he says roughly, “Fuck yes, baby. Feel it. Feel it with me.”
He fits his mouth against mine again, covering my moan.
This time the kiss is softer. Slower. More luxurious. Like melting into a steaming hot bath, all my muscles liquid heat. I forget about hating him and wind my arms up around his broad shoulders. I press my breasts against the hard expanse of his chest.
A high, sweet thrill sings through me when he groans.
He slides the hand encircling my neck down to my breast, cupping it through my dress, rubbing his thumb back and forth over the rigid peak of my nipple.
I know if he put his demanding hot mouth there and sucked, I’d come.
He breaks the kiss again, this time to nuzzle my neck and whisper hotly into my ear. His lips move over my skin. His beard tickles me. I don’t understand the words he’s saying: they’re not in English. It’s Irish he’s speaking, and somehow that makes it even more of a turn-on. My whole body feels as if it’s on fire.
I drop my head back, gasping for breath.
When my head hits the car window, it’s with a flat, unsexy thud that acts like a wake-up alarm to my woozy brain.
Wait. What the hell am I doing?
I freeze.
Feeling the change in me, Killian stills, too. He straightens, frames my face in his big hands, and gazes down at me. Entire planets are burning in his eyes.
“Don’t run away yet,” he says gruffly. “Sit with it for a moment longer.”
We stare at each other, nose to nose, breathing raggedly. My lips feel bruised. My heart feels bruised. My knees are shaking, my panties are soaked, and I think I have just gone out of my mind.
I whisper in horror, “You kissed me.”
“Aye. What’s really gonna make you tear your hair out later on is remembering how lustily you kissed me back.”
I flatten my hands over his chest and shove, pushing him away far enough to jerk out of his arms. I stand several feet away, my hand cupped over my mouth, unable to look at him.
He says, “For the record, I fucking loved it, too.”
I spin around and slap his face.
His head snaps to the side. He stands still for seconds that feel like lifetimes, then he slowly turns his head around and locks his burning gaze onto mine.
He licks his lips. I know it’s taking every ounce of his willpower not to lunge for me.
I turn around and head back to the apartment, breaking into a run halfway across the street.
Moving in a daze, I take off the dress, leaving it in a pile in the middle of my bedroom floor. I change into jeans, a T-shirt, a light jacket and boots, then use the back stairs of the building to enter the parking garage.
Then I get into my car and head to work.
It’s still early. Traffic is light. I’m at my desk within fifteen minutes, staring blankly at a dark computer screen, my hands still trembling, my mouth still feeling bruised.
I’m sitting in the exact same spot an hour later when my boss comes in.
“Hey, kiddo. How was your weekend?”
Hank says it in passing, rapping his knuckles on the top of my cubicle as he goes. I mumble an answer. I couldn’t say what.
He stops, backtracks, and looks at me with concern in his dark blue eyes. At fifty, he’s ruggedly handsome, tan and fit with a full head of sandy blond hair. I’ve always thought he looks like an advertisement for the benefits of healthy living.
“Did someone die?”
“No. Why?”
“You’re as white as a sheet.” He glances at my hands. “And your hands are shaking.”
I slide my hands under my desk, wringing them together guiltily. “I’m fine. Didn’t sleep very well last night.”
His gaze is steady. His expression is unconvinced. I should know by now that the man has such acute observation skills, he could find a mouse hiding in the dark.
“You want to talk about it?”
My laugh is faint and semi-hysterical. “I wouldn’t know where to begin.”
He jerks his head to one side. “Come in my office. I’ll get us some coffee.”
Coffee, ha ha. Maybe that’s not such a good idea. The last time I had coffee with a man, I went insane and turned into a giant, pulsing clitoris.
I rise, walk unsteadily into his office, and sink into the nearest chair. Hank returns in a few minutes with two Styrofoam cups and hands me one. Then he sits behind his big mahogany desk and looks at me.
“So. Give it to me. Who, what, when, where, and why?”
I laugh despite myself. He’s such a reporter. Taking a sip of bitter coffee to buy a moment, I look at all the framed awards hanging on the wall behind his desk. The office is small but comfortable, decorated all in beiges and creams. Conspicuously absent are any photos of family.
I say, “Do you ever regret not having children?”
His brows shoot up. “The question assumes I’ve ever met a woman I wanted to have children with.”
Embarrassed, I look down at the ugly white cup in my hands. “I’m sorry. That was rude. It’s none of my business.”
After a moment of silence, Hank says, “I’ll answer it in a sec, but first I want to point out that this is a momentous occasion.”
I glance up at him from under my brows.
He smiles, dimples flashing in both cheeks. “In the five years since you became my assistant, today’s the first time you’ve ever asked me a personal question.”
“It’s not because I don’t care.”
“I know.” His voice gentles. “It’s because you don’t want any personal questions asked in return.”
Oh god. I’m that obvious?
His tone turns brisk. “Anyway. To answer your question, no. I don’t regret not having children. They absolutely terrify me.”
That makes me laugh. “Kids scare you?”
“Their sole purpose is to grow up and replace us. We’re breeding our replacements. Have you ever thought of that?”
“You’ve been watching too many alien movies.”
“My sister has six of the little monsters. Six.” He shudders. “Visiting her house is like descending into Dante’s seventh circle of hell. Half a dozen violent, miniature tyrants going around smashing things and screaming like a bunch of Vikings on crack. It’s total chaos. She’s forty-two but she looks a hundred and two. If I hadn’t gotten a vasectomy in my twenties, watching her raise those future criminals would’ve definitely sent me running to the doctor.”
I feel a cold pang of panic. “Do you think people can be born bad? Like they come out that way, pre-programmed, and no matter how they try to be good, they’ll always be rotten?”