Saying that this is still a terrible idea would not be a lie, no matter what Archer says. The man’s got secrets in his past, secrets that have probably killed at least two people. Secrets that he’ll never tell me about, even as he expects me to decode them.
I’ve had some bad boyfriends before, but none of them ever had any kind of baggage like this. Archer would be the bad boyfriend to end all bad boyfriends, assuming we’d even ever get to the stage of having anything resembling a relationship.
He’s also a million times more compelling than any man I’ve ever met. Just the way his arm is braced against the door, holding out the rest of the world, makes my knees weak. I should be remembering all the reasons why he’s dangerous, but instead all I can think is I want him to use that arm to scoop me up.
“This is an awful idea.” I’m saying it as a warning to both of us—if we start this, we’ll regret it. It’s as inevitable as the sun rising in the east.
His hand falls away from the door.
“But I don’t want you to open it.”
Because this is inevitable too, us coming together. In some ways it seemed doomed to happen even before we met, when I declared I couldn’t love a man without poetry in his soul as I thought of him. I was warning myself even back then, but all the warnings in the world couldn’t turn me back from this moment.
He reaches out and slowly, deliberately engages the dead bolt. It clicks into place with a rasp that sounds louder than a shout.
“They’re all going to know what we’re up to here,” I say, still gripping the chair with all my might. The tech is right there, waiting outside. The entire company will hear the details within an hour.
“Good.” It’s positively wicked the way he says that. “Then they won’t interrupt us. Because I’m going to take all the time I want with you.”
Thank God I’m already sitting, because my legs would have given out entirely if I were standing when he said that. “What about the experiment?”
He stalks across the room, his power barely leashed. There’s no crack in that cold facade of his, but beneath, I can feel the heat. The desire straining to get free.
“It’s too late for that,” he says as he crouches before me. We’re eye to eye, which somehow makes him seem even more overpowering than when he towered over me. “You just had to start talking about translation like that.”
He reaches down and pulls off my shoes, throwing them away from him. The gesture is careless and final, as if to say I’ll never need my shoes again because he’s never going to let me up from this chair.
“Like what?” I ask breathlessly. “That’s how I always talk about how I translate.”
His fingers curl around my ankle, his grip strong, unbreakable. “Really? Because you looked like you were talking about getting fucked.”
I gasp. I know I get enthusiastic when I talk about my work, but… I shake my head. “You’re wrong.”
“Really?” It’s almost cruel, his tone. “Your heart was racing.” He runs the backs of his fingers against the base of my throat. “I could see it, right here. Your cheeks were pink.” This time he uses the pads of his fingers to trace out the shape of my blush. “They’re still hot. And you had to lick your lips, probably because you wanted to be kissed.” He drags his thumb, heavy and rough, over my bottom lip.
I grab his wrist, my heart pounding in my temples. “Those signs could mean anything.”
I’m taunting him, but I can’t help myself. I need to poke and torment him for some perverse reason, until he’s ready to savage me. I want him mad with need, emphasis on the mad.
He moves his hand down, dragging my hold with it. When he finds my hard, aching nipple, he squeezes it, making liquid heat pulse through my clit.
“And this?” he demands. “I can see them through your sweater, begging for me. Could these sweet nipples mean anything?”
They weren’t hard when I was talking about translations, and I know this because they sprang right to attention the moment he slammed shut the door. And they’ve been sharp, needy little points ever since. And oh, that he’s finally touching them, it’s like I’m going to melt into a puddle of the hottest substance on earth.
Except… there’s more of me that’s been desperate for his touch since he slammed that door shut. Even more so than my nipples.
I know what he’s going to do next, absolutely know it in my bones, and I’m on fire for it.
“Hmm. Nothing to say about these?” He gives my nipple one last gentle tug. “Finally no arguing?”
He sounds almost disappointed. But then his hand skims down my belly. I hold my breath as it dips lower still.
For a moment he pauses at my waistband, tormenting me with how close he is to where I’m aching for him, but still so far away.
“Bastard,” I mutter, only half meaning it.
“That’s right.” His tone is grim, but his touch is caressing. “And you love it.” He cups my pussy, his fingers long and strong. “I can feel your heat. I bet you’re wet too.”
I am, my folds going swollen and slippery when he found my nipples. “You can’t know that.”
His smile is almost cruel. “I can because of how your thighs move. You’re rubbing them together in this telltale way, like there’s this slick ache you can’t quite get at.”
My face goes slack even as my cheeks catch fire. “You can’t… It’s not…”
But it is. He’s described it exactly, almost like he’s in my head. His fingers move, slow and sure, rubbing at that ache. I lift into his touch, helpless.
“See?” he demands. “Because I definitely do.”
His clever thumb finds my clit even through all that fabric and flicks, sending ribbons of sensation through me. My thoughts scatter, and I swear the edges of my body go blurry.
No. If I let him keep going, he’ll turn me inside out and never put me back right. I have to take charge, or at least get us on equal footing.
I shift in the chair, wriggling out of his reach. “Wait, let me…”
But as I reach for his fly, he pushes my hands away. “No.”
“Why not? Don’t you want me to?” I certainly want to. I can’t stop thinking about how his cock would look in my hands, his balls drawn up tight with need. How the skin might taste, salt and musk, how it would feel to have him thrusting into my mouth.
“You wanted cold, impassionate,” he says. “You demanded it. So now you’re getting it.”
A cool thrill runs through me. Except he’s not really being withholding—he’s holding back. There’s a big difference, one I can see roiling under his skin. It’s like watching a volcano deciding not to erupt, knowing that all that obliterating power is lurking beneath.
“Fine.” I hold his gaze, seeing the heat banked in his eyes. It’s enough to know that he’s nowhere near as impassive as he pretends. I hook one knee over the chair arm, spreading myself open. “We’ll do it your way.”
“We were always going to do it that way.” He grabs my other leg, hooks it over the arm so that I’m entirely spread out, vulnerable, even though I’m still completely clothed.
“We weren’t.” My fake protest is lost as he unbuttons my skirt and tugs it off. He takes my panties with it, leaving my lower half entirely bare. When my ass hits the chair, I shiver at the touch of the hard, unyielding plastic. It’s a stark reminder of where we are and how this place is so, so wrong for what we’re about to do. A wrongness that makes it that much more exciting.
The master of this entire place, able to command thousands of people with a flick of his wrist, is kneeling between my thighs. His big, rough hands are on my knees, spreading me for him. And he’s looking at my pussy with an expression that makes my heart thump.
He can’t even pretend to be impassionate or withholding now. It makes me feel insanely powerful, bringing this man to this point. And yes, tender too, because I can’t believe Archer would do this for just anyone. He’s too tightly controlled.
But he’s doing it for me.
“Do you know how beautiful you are?” His gaze runs from the top of my head all the way to my toes, painted fire-engine red. “Shit, why am I even trying? You’re the fucking poet, not me.”
And then he buries his face between my legs and licks me. One broad, long swipe of his tongue, an intimate hello from his mouth to my pussy. I groan and fist my hand in his hair. He’s barely even touched the sensitive bits and I’m already shaky.
“Beautiful,” he mutters straight into my core. “Your taste, your scent, the way you feel…”
That sounds like poetry to me. He licks again, this time making sure my clit gets most of his attention. I squirm, pushing my sex into his face, grinding against him so hard his stubble rasps against my tender spots.
One hand smacks onto my hip, holding me down. Holding me steady for that tormenting tongue of his.
“Yes,” I mutter, savoring how fierce his grip is. It feels like he’s sealed to me, like he can never let go. I’m thrusting against his face like some kind of mindless sex demon, but he’s making these greedy noises like he loves it. Like he can’t get enough of how gone I am.
And I am. It’s coming on fast, faster than it ever has, too fast. I can’t catch my breath, the orgasm is pressing down so hard on me.
“Archer,” I whimper, surprised at how I sound. Like I’m untouched and he’s the first to ever bring me to this crisis. But this orgasm is a first for me, deep and fast and hard as it’s pulling me down.
“I’m here,” he whispers, all soft and reassuring between tongue strokes. I’m so wet I hear the slickness on both of us as we move. “I’ve got you. Let go.”
It’s not a command. He’s not ordering me to come—he’s asking, crooning, coaxing me. It’s so fucking hot stars burst under my eyelids even before I come.
A second later, it breaks over me. And my words, my precious words, fail me entirely. For the first time ever.