The Boss and His Cowgirl(28)

She had one too-short moment to savor the sensations of hot skin and starched linen before he pushed up and slipped his shirt off. Capturing her wrists in one large hand, he pressed them to pillows above her head. “I get to touch you first.”

She might have protested, if her brain still had the ability to form words she didn’t have the breath to utter. Wide-eyed, she gazed up at him, watched his mouth curve into a predatory grin, his amber eyes looking almost feral. He simply watched her, touching her only with his breath, her hips pinned by his, her wrists still shackled.

“So pretty.” His expression shifted from wonder to possessiveness. “And now mine.”

Clay released her wrists but she didn’t move, captured in his heated gaze. He pushed away, sat back on his knees between her legs. His gaze roamed over her, as visceral a caress as if he’d stroked his palm across her skin.

She shivered uncontrollably, not from cold, but from the heat building up inside her. He made her feel hot, crazy with need, all common sense scattered into the shadows of his bedroom. Now that she had given in to the desire, all she wanted was to touch him, to feel his weight on her, to know what he felt like buried deep inside her. Only that would satisfy her now.

Georgie didn’t know where her feelings came from. This eruption of desire might stem from her long-standing crush, or it could have ignited from the look in his eyes. She ached, deep inside, needing him. Wanting him as she’d never wanted anyone else. She couldn’t deny her feelings any longer.

His hand, surprisingly callused, followed the path of his gaze, stroking the curve of her cheek and down over her throat. He skimmed across her collarbone and lingered at her breasts, palm cupping her, fingers gently kneading until her breath hitched, fast and uneven. He didn’t hurry, giving each breast attention, treating them to touch and tweaks until she bucked beneath him.

“Shhh, Georgie. I want to take my time.” He smiled, holding her gaze a moment before the warmth and weight of his body disappeared. She heard something soft hit the floor—his slacks. Clay was back in a moment and his hand continued the journey lower. Rough fingertips teased across her belly, making her quiver and reach impatiently for him. He caught her hands, banding her wrists easily, refusing to be rushed.

He pressed on the soft curve of her belly, and she waited for embarrassed heat to flush her cheeks. She’d never had a flat, trim stomach, not like the women Clay normally dated. The feeling didn’t come. How could it when he watched her, his desire so evident she could read it without her glasses. Deep appreciation shone in his eyes, and she relaxed a moment before growing bold enough to push her hips against his hand, begging for his attention.

Clay obliged, caressing from one hip to the other. His fingers curled around her curves and he squeezed gently. She closed her eyes, picturing him gripping her with both hands, thrusting into her. Where did these ideas come from? Sex before Clay had been awkward fumblings in the dark. Her mind conjured images of him spreading her legs wider, his fingers sliding into that aching space between them. Her eyes flew open as his hand did just that.

Fingertips teased her, accompanied by a low hum of male appreciation. As his fingers continued their explorations, she tensed, bracing for the moment when he reached the burning need inside her. She squeezed her eyes shut as her hips tilted upward without any prompting from her. As time, in sync with her erratic breaths, skipped to a stop, she waited for...something, the moment one of exquisite torture.

It didn’t come. Instead of his sliding fingers sinking into her, they were replaced by his breath blowing across her core. Something warm and slick brushed across her, the touch unexpected but welcome. His breath came again, stirring gently against her skin before he descended to taste her with his mouth, soft and wet and hot and sending her wits scattering.

He was going to kill her. She fisted her hands in his hair—his perfectly trimmed and styled hair—and arched against him, crying out, unable to bite back the sound. She felt his smile, her moans of pleasure urging him on. He teased her, tormenting and tasting, lapping, stroking, nibbling as if she was a feast laid out for his pleasure. She was ready to beg, plead for him to finish, to push her over the edge into the storm of pleasure he’d created deep within her. Clay had no mercy. He used his mouth shamelessly, and finally his fingers—one, followed by another—curled inside her relentlessly until she shuddered, bowing her back, feet and shoulders pressing against the bed, as she went blind from the enormity of the emotions crashing over her.

As she fell back against the soft mattress, her throat burned, raw from what? Screams?