“Just . . .” He swallows again. “I . . . Women like you don’t usually . . .”
“Women like me.” Wow. Sounds like I’ll actually have to slap him. “What’s that? Because—”
“Beautiful. You are very, very beautiful. Probably the most . . . And you’re obviously smart and funny, so . . .” He gives me a helpless look, suddenly looking less like a genius NASA team leader built like a cedar tree and more . . . boyish. Young. “Is this some kind of joke?”
I study him through squinting eyes, revising my earlier assessment. Perhaps my conclusions were premature, and it’s not quite correct that no one can be this clueless. Perhaps someone can.
Ian, for instance. Ian, who could probably make good money as a stock-photo model, tags: Hot Guy, Ginger, Massive. I saw about four people check him out on our way here, but he apparently has no idea that he could be fancast to play the hot Weasley brother. Absolutely zero awareness of how glorious he is.
I grin, suddenly charmed. “Can I ask you a question?” I roll myself closer, and I’m not sure when that happened, but he angled his chair so that my knees end up slotted between his. Nice. “It’s a bit forward.”
He looks down at our touching legs and nods. As usual, only once.
“Can I kiss you? Like, right now?”
“I . . .” He stares. Then blinks. Then mouths something that’s not a word.
My grin widens. “That’s not no, is it?”
“No.” He shakes his head. His eyes are fixed on my lips, the black of his pupils swallowing the blue. “It’s not.”
“Okay, then.”
It’s pretty simple, standing from my chair and leaning forward on his. My palms find the armrests and press against them, and for a long moment I stay right there, caging this bear-size man who could flick me away with his little finger but doesn’t. Instead he looks up at me like I’m wondrous and beautiful and awe-inspiring, like I’m a gift, like he’s a bit dumbstruck.
Like he really wants me to kiss him. So I close that last inch and I do. And it’s . . .
Kind of awkward, to be honest. Not bad. Just a little hesitant. His lips part in a gasp when they touch mine, and for a split second, a terrifying thought occurs to me.
It’s his first kiss. Is it? Oh my God, it’s his first kiss. Am I really giving someone their first—
Ian angles his head, pushes his mouth against mine, and it destroys my train of thought. I’m not sure how he manages, but whatever he’s doing with his lips and teeth feels massively, aggressively right. I whimper when his tongue meets mine. He growls in response, something rumbly and deep in his throat.
Okay. This is no first kiss. This is a fucking masterpiece.
He’s probably two hundred pounds of muscles and I have no clue whether the chair can hold us both, but I decide to live dangerously: I straddle Ian’s lap, feeling his sharp inhale vibrate through my body. For a suspended second our lips part and his eyes hold mine, like we’re both waiting for every piece of furniture in the room to collapse. But JPL must be investing in sturdy decor.
“That was high-risk, high-reward,” I say, and I’m surprised at how short my breath is already. The room is silent, bathed in warm light. I let out a single, shaky laugh, and I realize where Ian’s hand is: hovering half an inch above my waist. Warm. Eager. Ready to snap.
“Can I—？” he asks.
“Yes.” I laugh into his mouth. “You can touch me. It’s the whole point of—”
I don’t get to finish, because the second he has permission his hands are everywhere, one on my nape, pulling my lips into his, the other on the small of my back. The moment my chest presses against his, he does another of those low, rough sounds—but ten times deeper, like it comes from his very core. He’s all scratchy stubble, warm unwieldy flesh, and out of the corner of my eye I see only red, red, so much red.
“I’m in love with your freckles,” I say, right before nipping at one on his jaw. “I thought about licking them the moment I saw you.” I make my way to the hollow of his ear. He exhales, sharp.
“When I saw you, I—” I suck on the skin of his throat, and he stutters. “I thought you were a little too beautiful,” he finishes, breathless. His hands are traveling under my shirt, up my spine, cautiously tracing the edges of my bra. He smells magnificent, clean and serious and warm.
“Too beautiful for what?”
“For everything. Too beautiful to look at, even.” His grip on my waist tightens. “Hannah, you—”
I am grinding my groin against his. Which is probably the reason we both sound like we’re running a marathon. And in my defense, I really only meant for this to be a kiss, but yeah. No. I’m not stopping, and judging from the way his fingers dip into the back of my shorts to cup my ass cheek and press me tighter into his hard cock, he’s not planning to, either.
“Does anyone else use this office?” I ask. I’m not shy, but this is . . . good. No-interruptions-please good. I-don’t-want-to-wait-till-we-get-home good. I’m-going-to-come-in-about-two-minutes good.
He shakes his head, and I could cry with happiness, but I don’t have time. It’s like we were playing before, and now we’re in earnest. We’re barely kissing, uncoordinated, unfocused, just grinding against each other, and I chase the feeling of his body against mine, the high of being so close, his erection between my legs as we both make hushed, grunting, obscene noises, as we both try to get closer, to get more contact, skin, heat, friction, friction, friction, I need more friction—
“Shit.” I cannot get enough. It’s not a good position, and I hate this stupid chair, and this is driving me insane. I let out a loud, infuriated groan and sink my teeth deep into his neck, like I am made of heat and frustration, and—
Somehow, Ian knows exactly what I need. Because he stands from the cursed chair with a muted, “It’s okay, it’s okay, I’ve got you.” He takes me right with him and does something that could technically qualify as destroying NASA property to make enough room for us. A moment later I’m sitting on the desk, and all of a sudden we can both move like we want to. He opens my legs with his palms and slots his own right between them, and—
Finally. The friction is—this is precisely what I asked for, precisely what I needed—
“Yes,” I breathe out.
“Yeah?” I don’t even need to move my hips. His hand slides down to grip my ass, and he somehow knows exactly how to angle me, how the hem of my shorts can brush against my clit. “Like this?” I feel his cock iron-hard on my hip and I make mewling, embarrassing, pleading sounds into the hollow of his throat, murmuring incomprehensibly about how good this is, how grateful I am, how I’m going to do the same for him when we finally fuck, how I’m going to do whatever he wants—
“Stop,” he pants into my mouth, urgent, a little desperate. “You need to be quiet, or I’m going to—I just want to—”
I laugh against his cheek, reedy, hushed. My thighs are starting to shake. There is a liquid, pressing heat swelling in my abdomen. “Want to—ah—want to what?”