Her Billionaires(51)

Torment.

She wanted Dylan. Now. On her desk and in her. As she glanced down she saw her sweater, pooched a bit at her belly, right where the waistband of her skirt rested. Did he mean it? She wasn’t Jill. Would never be Jill. Couldn’t be the chick with fifteen percent body fat and legs like a beach volleyball addict. Oh, sure, she could surf. And ski. And maybe run with an inhaler and an ambulance driving two miles an hour behind her. Give her an Olympic bar and some squat racks and she’d do fine with the guys, lifting in the weight room, but they’d outlift her easily.

Call it whatever you wanted—fluffy, zaftig, fat, big and beautiful, plus-sized, curvy, big girl—this was her, and she wasn’t changing. Could Dylan (and Mike! Don’t forget Mike!) really want her? The fat girl?

His eyes changed, softening with a dark intensity, his lips parting slightly, his body moving closer. Unmistakable body language. Yeah. He really was into her.

Right now she wanted him in her.

Mike?

Choice A: tell Dylan that she was seeing someone else and ask him to give her a call so they could get together sometime later.

Choice B: fulfill yet another fantasy and have Dylan take her right here, right now, on her desk and behind a cheap lock on her office door, biting her hand to keep the sounds of ecstasy quiet enough to avoid drawing sidelong glances and nudges among the gossipers.

“Choice A,” she muttered. Be a good girl. Do the right thing. Don’t be that woman.

“Hmmm?” he asked, the sound hoarse and airy, like he was struggling for control. Just like her. His eyes—oh, those eyes, so pure and focused and wanting her. His words were a balm that healed so many wounds, softened myriad scars, made hope spring eternal in her heaving bosoms which, right now, strained against her all-too-silky bra fabric and made her tense and frenzied, her clit hot for Dylan.#p#分页标题#e#

That hand on her arm slid up to her shoulder and she reached out, too, the fat girl with the firefighter/model, the swaggering man of muscle and bravado who swept her off her feet and gave her a taste of fun and confidence. Now his palm cupped her cheek, slid to loosen her hair, the thick waves pouring down her back and shoulders as he immersed both hands in the strands and brought his lips to hers.

Choice B, after all, it seemed. Don’t be that woman.

Might as well tell herself not to breathe. The press of his soft lips on hers made her inhale so deeply her breasts compressed against the silk of her bra, the sensation of puckered nipples and taut rib cage band so constricting she felt faint for a second, the room spinning as his tongue found hers, his hands sliding down her back, then to her waist. With a sudden push inward and up he lifted her off from the ground and onto the desk, the force of his strength unnerving yet making her grin. He could lift her?

He could lift her. With catlike reflexes he slid her jacket off her body and snaked her skirt up, over her thighs, one hand kneading the flesh of her hip like a hungry man grabbing for food.

“Oh, how I’ve missed you,” he whispered in her ear, his breath hot then cold as the spaces between words stood out in stark relief, the air filling the void of his sweet confession.

“I’m so sorry,” she answered, her voice thick with apology.

“No.” He pulled back and kissed her forehead, then her nose, and stared at her. “I am sorry. Sorry that it took this much determination to reach you. Sorry that so many men before me hurt you enough to make your walls necessary.”

Mike. Don’t think about Mike!

Gulp. “You’re different, though—”

“You couldn’t know that. I had to show you. Let me show you more, Laura.” The brush of her hair against her neck, the rasp of his stubble against her cheek as he kissed her, the scent of him, a smoky musk with a hint of citrus—she was his. As he gently leaned her back on the desk, his muscled body over hers, she availed herself of his skin, palms sliding under his tucked-in shirt, the glorious heat of Dylan finally tangible, touchable, tasteable.

Taste him. As he hovered over her she reached up and found the softest spot on his neck, the skin fragile and tender, begging for her tongue. As the tip slid over the nape of his neck she felt him swallow, his Adam’s apple moving slightly, air rushing through his windpipe in a gasp. He was salty and human, the little buds on her tongue feeling the hair follicles, half a day’s growth peeking out. She breathed in his essence and then her legs parted, widening to accommodate his hips as a flash of his groin pressed against hers, his hard rod pushing against his pants.

She knew exactly how he felt right now. Reaching for his waist, she unbuckled his belt, unbuttoned the row of buttons on his fly (vintage Levi’s? How Dylan) and slid his pants over those thick, hard hips, her palms cupping the curves of honed man as sinew and tendons, tight from working out and just plain old work, gave her a relief map of his body to touch and explore at her leisure.