Ruthless In A Suit(44)

If I can get us out of the foyer.

I pull back from her and take her hands. If I could magically make my bed appear, I’d do it but frankly I don’t have the patience to take her up the stairs. I’m guiding her into the formal sitting room off the entrance—there are couches and a plush rug if it comes to that—but we still don’t make it far.

“Jesus Christ,” Emily says, her eyes drifting up toward the curved staircase and dark, high ceilings. “This place is huge.” I tug her toward me, covering her neck with kisses to distract her. I don’t want her to see my house. I want her to feel me. Her hands go back around my neck. Briefly. “No, seriously, Jackson. This is some major old money home.”

I pull back and look at her. “This is Boston. The houses are old. This place was built in 1860.”

She looks into the sitting room with the modern cream couch some decorator picked out to help counter the stuffiness of the home’s original details. “You have a fireplace?” She says this like it’s outrageous, like I have a pony in the courtyard.

“I have five,” I say.

I love watching her walk around in awe—not because I’m trying to impress her, although a part of me definitely wants Emily to be impressed by me, and in every way possible. I love the way her face lights up, her eyes scanning the room and catching every new thing. You’d think she just stepped through the looking glass. I guess maybe for her, she has. Of all the women I’ve brought here, many were impressed with its old-world charm or its size—I own two side-by-side brownstones—but none looked at it like they were in the queen’s palace the way Emily is.

“Will you give me a tour?” she asks.

I groan. “Yes. But later.” I pull her back into my arms, right where she belongs. “I’d rather be the one taking a tour.” I run my fingers down her side.

“Ha ha,” she says, but her eyes are getting that heavy, lustful look back.

“Get back here,” I say, pulling her into me again and crushing her mouth with mine. The taste of her is so sweet and delicate that it’s all I need.

Except it’s not. My body needs to pressed against her hard, be closer, feel more of her. I want to do everything to her at once, and the fact that I have to touch and kiss and lick her one place at a time makes my head spin.

We are panting with passion, our hands clawing all over each other. Emily’s hands run down my chest and I take off my suit jacket and toss it on the floor.

“More,” is all Emily says, reaching for my tie. The fire in her eyes makes her meaning clear. I tug it off as she begins working the buttons of my shirt, her fingers fumbling in her haste.

“Let me,” I say, swiftly getting the shirt and undershirt off and tossing them to the floor with the rest, my gold cufflinks clanging on chestnut floor. Her hands touch my bare chest, tracing over the lines of my pecs, studying me as if she’s memorizing every ridge. I chill to her warm touch, restraining myself for a moment to let her feel me. Waiting is hard because I’m already pushing out of my shoes, ready to take more off.

Emily begins to take off her own shoes—sexy little black heels with straps going this way and that—but I stop her. I don’t want her to have to do anything. I want to touch and feel every inch of her. I want to care for Emily; that’s what she deserves.

I kneel down before her and unbuckle the doll-sized straps of her shoes, helping her step out of each one as she leans back against the wall. Her feet are so small and perfect that I hold one up and kiss it. I can’t help myself.

“Jackson…” she says, and hearing the smile in her voice delights me beyond measure.

I stay kneeled before her, running my hands up her smooth legs, going just under her skirt enough so that I can hear her breath quicken. I feel her body across her dress, the shallow breathing telling me how she feels under my touch.

“I can’t keep standing,” she says, her hands flat against the wall behind her.

“Wait a moment,” I say. “I want to look at you.”

I stand back up, reaching behind her to find the zipper that’s keeping this beautiful body of hers covered. I pull her hair to the side and kiss the soft insides of her neck, tasting her with my tongue as I lower the zipper down to her waist. I take her face in my hands and look at her, her eyes heavy, her lips full and parted, and I softly kiss her, our tongue mingling in a flawless dance together. I take the straps of her dress and lower them down from her arms, pulling away from her lips when the dress is to her waist. She wiggles her hips a little as I help shimmy it down to the floor. Then I step back from her and look.