I have spent the past week replaying what his body feels like against mine, and I am unwell from it. He has haunted all my waking moments, and the only thing that could make this ache in my body go away is for him to finish what he’s starting.
My pulse quickens as he towers over me, his eyes gripping mine in a chokehold I don’t want to be released from. The loud inhale and exhale of our breaths is all the soundtrack I need to reply, “What are you going to do about it?”
His head jerks at my response, his jaw muscle twitching violently as he turns away and debates. Finally, I hear him moan, “Fuck,” under his breath before he grabs my face and seals his lips over mine.
The heat of his tongue swirls into my mouth and is like a salve to a wound that was aching all over my body as I wrap my arms around his hips and hold on for dear life.
How long have I wanted to kiss this man again? Days? Weeks? Since the first moment I stepped into that boardroom for my interview? It has to be longer than this moment because the ecstasy of relief I feel flush against him again is like nothing I’ve ever felt before.
He shifts to pin my back against the worktable, and I hear the clatter of tools fall to the floor beside us as his grip leaves my face and slides down to my waist. He steels his hands under the fabric of my top to my breasts, squeezing them harshly in his large hands. It’s a punishing grip, his body clearly overcome by the sexual frustration just like mine.
The delicious pain of his assault causes me to whimper into his lips as slickness grows between my legs. My tongue fights to keep up with his as he consumes me, swallowing up every moan, groan, and gasp that slips out of me.
“Fuck,” he grunts again, breaking our kiss to turn me around. He presses my front up against the worktable and folds over me to grind the ridge of his hard cock into my ass. My hands spread out to brace myself as our bodies roll into one another, my fantasy very nearly becoming a reality.
My clit throbs as I feel my panties grow wetter with every thrust of his hips. This isn’t enough. I want him in me, I want him on me, I want him tasting me. I want to taste him. I want to break myself into multiple pieces so that every fucking part of this can be happening to me all at the same exact second.
I yank his hand off my hip to guide him to my center. He rubs me through my shorts, and the fabric dampens with my arousal as I ride him, my pelvis fucking his firm strokes.
Groaning loudly, he presses his head onto my back and bows over me, blanketing my body with his heat as he continues to dry hump me. The naughty, illicit nature of what we’re doing fully clothed somehow feels hotter than being stripped naked and fucking on the sawhorse.
A tiny yelp escapes my lips when I feel him bite down on my shoulder, and it’s as if that noise shocks him back to reality because he pulls his hand away and backs up.
“Fuck,” he growls and shoves both hands through his hair. “Shit, I bit you again.”
“It’s okay,” I exhale with a laugh, glancing at the tender area that’s reddening already.
I feel the loss of his warmth as he puts more space between us and begins pacing by the sawhorse, his erection painfully obvious. “Jesus…Everly is still awake. She could have walked in.”
I fight to catch my breath, straightening my tank top back to its rightful position before crossing my arms over my nipples. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened.”
“You happened,” he snaps back at me, his face looking almost angry.
“You think this is my fault?” I exclaim, my state of arousal being doused rather quickly. “I’m pretty sure you touched me first.”
“That was after you fucking ghosted me,” he stammers, looking more unraveled than I’ve ever seen him.
My face twists up in confusion. “I didn’t ghost you! I’ve been talking to you all day.”
“Not that kind of ghost, you like…Patrick Swayze’d me.” He gesticulates with his hands like he’s wrapping around someone at a pottery cauldron.
I huff out a noise of annoyance. “You can’t turn a person into a verb.”
“You are all fucking verb, Cassandra.” He begins pacing again, his breath hitching in his chest as he points between us. “This isn’t working.”
My chest contracts with the ominous words he’s just uttered. I press my hand to my heart in a feeble attempt to calm down the dread that washes over me at where I think this is going. I try not to cry when I ask, “Do you want me to quit?”
Max stops, and a vein in his forehead pulses angrily as he gapes back at me. “No! Fuck…I can’t lose—Everly can’t lose you,” he thunders.