Taking the Score(19)

“What are you doing?” So gravelly. Yum.

“Looking for your boxers.” She spotted them at the edge of the bed and with a quick flick, shoved them under and continued her quest. Keeping her chin close to the soft shag carpet shot her ass higher in the air.

Another guttural noise sounded behind her. She had to admit an increasing affection for her growly boss.

“Now, where are they, I wonder?”

“Get back here. I’m not finished with you.”

She looked back over her shoulder and almost licked her lips at the sight of him lying there, all coiled-up tension and jutting cock, now covered with a condom. Fast mover, this one. “Oh, but you already finished in the shower. In my experience, a man’s power of recovery is never that good, especially when they’re older. What are you? Thirty? We can try again later when your dick’s had a rest.”

“Emma,” he gritted out. “Get that sweet ass of yours over here now.”

She wiggled said sweet ass. “I’ve already come twice today, boss. Quite satisfied, thanks.” She returned to her search. The feel of his eyes on her, the sensuous weight of his gaze, was making her wet all over again. God, how? Needing him to see how she shone for him, she gave a quick tug at the front of the tee and dragged it over the swell of her ass, exposing the still sensitive flesh he had sucked on moments before. It bloomed under his carnal gaze.

“I wonder where they ended up—”

Two massive hands planted on her hips—somehow he’d used jaguar-like reflexes to cover the distance between them—and dragged her back against his magnificent hardness.

“Does this feel like it needs a rest?” He moved his thick length along the cleft of her ass and down through the slick, hot folds that needed him inside her now.

“I’ve had…harder.”

Another lascivious rub had her biting down hard on her lip. Against the valley of her ass, his cock appeared to be turning even more rigid.

“Feel how much I want you, Emma?”

Reluctantly, she pulled away. He dragged her back, his fingers moving over her dragonflies tattoo. They lingered there, and his murmur of “beautiful” shivered through her. That combination of soft reverent fingertips and hard irreverent cock conjured up a tangle of vulnerability and desire. Confusing as all hell.

“You feel it, baby?”

Wantonly, she swirled against him, rubbing her wetness against that thick cock head, letting him know how much she needed it. Craved it. But still, she sensed him holding back. He was rich, handsome, successful. He could have any woman he wanted, yet he chose to live like a monk in this penthouse fortress. Ascetic, suppressed, Spartan with his desires. He needed to be turned on in a way he hadn’t been before.

He needed to lose his shit with her.

“I—I want… I want you to take it, Brody. Take everything you need.”

On a loud groan, he sank into her, filling her about halfway before stopping. Hell, he was big. So huge, and she had never felt so consumed.

“Need. More.” She squeezed her muscles around his enormous girth, inviting him into her body. Demanding he take what was his.

“Emma, not yet,” he rasped. “I won’t fucking last.”

Oh, I know. She did it again. Wiggled her ass and sank her fingers into the shag. With her forehead touching the floor, she arched her back, stealing inches of pleasure, each more exciting than the last, as she pushed back onto his cock.

He dug his fingers into her hip bones. “You. Will. Wait.”

“Or what, Brody?” she moaned, the words muffled against the floor. “Worried you might lose it, baby?”

She compressed her muscles again, grasping his thick shaft. It pulsed inside her, a raging beast snarling at a cage.

“Fuck, Emma, don’t test me.” He resumed thrusting on his terms, each one a harder slam than the last, each one sucking filthy moans from her. His mastery over her body and his emotions thrilled her and pissed her off equally.

She would strip him bare if it was the last thing she did.

“Harder, Brody. Oh God, please. Take my orgasm. Take what’s yours.”

That plea seemed to spur him on. His hips pistoned into her, the erotic sound of flesh slapping flesh shoving them both higher toward the peak they both needed to reach. Pleasure rippled through her, small waves that gathered to storm strength with each thrust and clench. Her orgasm—her third today—was so close, right there, ah, yes, take it, baby, and then she felt a yank on her hair. Oh God, he’d pulled her hair. That sealed the deal and sent her shuddering toward blinding release. Within seconds, he was jerking inside her, his hand cradling her skull. Somehow he retained enough control to orgasm and not rip her hair from its roots.

He slumped over her, his chest to her back, still connected inside her. She luxuriated in a brief moment of peace and satiety, crazy in love with the weight of him on her, all that solidity when her life was as wobbly as a Jell-O mold. So much had happened in the last twenty-four hours; this seemed like just another crazy twist to their previously uncomplicated work relationship.

He pulled out of her and drew her tee down so it covered her ass—an affectionate touch that checked her heart. But then so much of what he’d done for her had that affect. He had already been so kind to her, and now she’d goaded him into losing control, into taking a step outside his comfort zone. So much for reinventing herself as respectable. That bad girl was making a spectacular comeback.

“Brody, I—” She broke off, not knowing how to say it. Or even what to say.

“Emma, c’mere,” he murmured as he sat back against the bed and gathered her in his arms. She curled up into his chest and let him hold her while she staved off tears at how shitty everything was except this one perfect thing. Brody was the one person she could trust right now. He seemed to recognize the moment, that her begging for him to lose control was her way of trying to wrest it for herself. She’d used him to feel good, yet he was holding her like she mattered.

“I’m sorry I spoke to you like that,” she whispered against his neck. “Pushed you into something you weren’t comfortable with.”

He smoothed her hair. “You’re sorry for turning me on so much you produced two orgasms from the same hard-on?”

“I did? Is that even possible?”

He laughed softly, such a rare and beautiful sound. She was starting to love it. “I didn’t think so, but dammit I came, stayed as hard as steel, and came again. We’re confounding science.” He tipped her chin up so she faced him. Those gray eyes, silver bursts of light, assessed her. “The question is where do we go from here?”

“If you think you took advantage—”

“I don’t think that. You knew what you wanted, and you went for it. You came at me like a cat in heat.”

She thumped him gently. “Hey, you were pretty grabby yourself.”

“I was.” He smiled, a proud grin. It faded as he watched her mental U-turn manifest on her face. “Another terrible idea?”

“Why do the terrible ones always feel so good?”

“A question for the ages.”

“My life right now is so complicated that living—and sleeping—with my boss is a catastrophe in the making. We’re not going to get much work done if all we can think about is whether the photocopier is the perfect height for doggy style.”

“I think it’s probably too tall and there are too many buttons that go beep.” He grinned. “But I’m assuming you’ve already measured and know that, Ms. Strickland.”

Snugging her body against his, she stifled her laugh. Really, she should be creating a separation between them, yet this closeness she felt with him was undeniable. Strangely right. Postcoital Brody Kane was one very cool dude.

He rubbed calming circles over her back, not questioning, giving her mental space even though she was sweat-bonded to his chest. That urge to cry re-bubbled and she bit down on her lip to fight it off.

“It’s okay, Emma. I won’t push. You’ll just have to be satisfied with knowing what I’m thinking about in the shower, the kitchen, the library, the wine cellar…”

She laugh-snorted.

“Or whenever you walk by my office door.”

She lifted her head from the safety of his warm shoulder. “I was right about you.”

“Yeah?” He stared into her eyes, all dreamy and romantic.

Snap out of it, Ems.

“You’re an absolute sadist.”





Chapter Twelve

“This is exactly what I meant by mooching, Brody.”

Emma stared at the array of pretty skirts and blouses and camisoles, not to mention the inordinate supply of skimpy lingerie and beautiful heels. Brody sat in one of the white leather armchairs, in weathered Levi’s and a button-down oxford, sporting a laptop on his knee and an air of unbothered-by-it-all. Kevin lay curled up at his feet, playing adoring lapdog instead of his usual ball of hiss.

Her cat was getting comfortable. She’d have to do something about that.

Realizing that she had a problem—no clothes but the crumpled suit she’d been wearing when summoned to the penthouse yesterday morning—she’d resolved to go out to her usual thrift store this morning armed with her last twenty bucks. As much as she’d love to work in Brody’s butter-soft tees, it was not an option. That’s when her boss presented another option, the kind that only richer-than-Trump people could indulge.