There was an urgency to his movements as he devoured my mouth, plastering me against the book-laden shelves. A sense of unfinished business. A continuation of something we’d previously started. But of course, that couldn’t be.
Christian’s erection pressed against my center, and something inside me ignited. I rolled my ass, my legs knotted at the ankles around his waist, meeting his erection with purposeful thrusts. The state of my panties told me a long foreplay session wasn’t in the cards for me.
“Christian.” I raked my fingernails over his sharp jaw, my tongue dancing with his. He froze, drawing away, like I’d slapped him.
“What?” I asked, panting, as he took a full step back, leaving me to level myself on my stilettos. “What happened?”
It couldn’t be anything I’d said. All I’d done was say his name. Men liked that, especially behind closed doors. And yet he stared me down as if I’d committed a great sin. Like a betrayed lover.
Confusion flooded me.
He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, he looked completely different. He ate up the space between us with one swift movement, picked me up by my ass, and hurled me onto my bed. My legs flung in the air, and a loud rip pierced the silence. My pencil skirt was torn, half my ass hanging out there for him to see.
“What the . . .” I was a mixture of turned on, pissed off, and taken by surprise. “That was a brand-new Balmain!”
“Send me the bill.” He propped one knee between my legs on my bed, grabbed the hem of my skirt, and ripped it all the way until it fell beneath me in one perfect square. “Better yet, let’s call it even on all those dinners. I have a feeling your family won’t be able to afford unexpected expenses after the legal bill you’ll be slapped with.”
That was low, and Christian didn’t usually aim low. In fact, he’d been pretty good about not rubbing our situation in my face thus far. Which made me even more confused as to how my saying his name had changed things between us.
“What’s gotten into you?” I demanded, but I quickly forgot to press him for an answer when he leaned between my legs, plastering his strong body against mine. He kissed me roughly, deliberately rubbing his five-o’clock shadow against my skin, making it bloom pink.
He used his teeth to unbutton my white dress shirt. Not with expertise and finesse. Rather, he yanked and spit them out, one by one, as more of my skin was revealed in front of him. When he saw my crème lace bra, he covered one of my breasts with his mouth completely and sucked hard. The damp heat of his mouth sent violent shivers down my spine. My fingers threaded into his hair, tugging him southward shamelessly.
“Someone’s impatient,” he chuckled against my navel, dipping his tongue into it before breathing cold air inside. My skin prickled with goose bumps.
“You’re quite the expert, aren’t you . . .” I was going to say his name again but then stopped myself. Something told me he didn’t want to hear it, even though I had no idea why. Christian didn’t notice my sentence was incomplete.
“This is not a conversation I’d like to conduct at this moment.”
And then he was there. His teeth scraped the hem of my panties—unfortunately a pair of seamless, black, boyfriend-cut underwear—removing them urgently, his hands busy spreading my thighs wide. I didn’t know what was sexier—watching his tan, strong hands and muscular forearms against my pale skin, or looking down at his crown of jet-black hair, knowing what was to come. Or rather who was to come—me, namely.
He tossed my underwear behind his shoulder, still fully clothed.
He paused to take inventory of my naked body for the first time. Like he was studying a map, calculating where to start, where to attack first.
“God, Arya.”
He brushed his thumb from my clit to the base of my center, before dipping a long finger inside me. I closed my eyes and moaned.
“Soaked.” I heard the pop of his mouth and opened my eyes just in time to see he was tasting the finger he’d put inside me. “Tell me what you want, Arya.”
Not giving him the pleasure of hearing me beg, I sank my fingernails into his shoulders and brought him back down, his face level with my sex. He ran his tongue along my opening, and I shuddered, closing my eyes. Clearly, he wanted to have control over the situation. And clearly, he was failing.
“Fuck,” he growled, his tongue lapping at me again, deeper now. He was thirsty for it. “Here I go again.”
Here I go again? What did that mean?