“The drawing can wait,” he stated, reaching the throw rug and cushion-covered sofa. “I can’t.”
She studied him, her pupils dilated, her breath shallow. “That’s okay. I think my muse is a tad distracted.”
“Fucking better be,” he growled before lowering her to the sofa.
He took possession of her lips again, worshipping them, exploring them with infinite desire and attention.
She arched beneath him, snaring his wrist with a firm hand to smooth his fingers beneath the hem of her tank top, directing his palm up her rib cage until he cupped her left breast. He kneaded its heavy swell, pinching and plucking at her nipple, making love to her mouth as he did so.
And then he was feasting on her breast, her shirt a crumple of cotton on the floor, her legs wrapped around his hips as he suckled on first one nipple and then the other. She moaned and begged him to suck harder, to use his teeth.
His body responded to the wild, uninhibited requests. His groin flooded with liquid steel, his erection protesting at being confined by boxers and chinos.
Lifting his head from her breast, he looked down into her pleasure-fogged eyes. “I need to be inside you, Si.”
“Do you see me arguing against that?”
He chuckled, dipping his hand between their bodies, his fingers into her slick heat. “This is all in the name of getting your creative juices flowing.”
She let out a hitching whimper.
“Christ,” he moaned against the side of her neck, scissoring his fingers together. “You are so tight and wet and perfect.”
She fisted her hand in his hair, her breath growing rapid. “I want you inside me.”
He lifted his head and nipped her bottom lip with a playful kiss. “I am.”
She punished his flippant tease with a tight squeeze of his hips with her thighs. “Don’t make me beg.”
His heart skipped a beat. “What if I want you to?”
Her eyelids fluttered closed, pleasure etching her face as he stroked the sweetest spot within her walls. “I’m begging you, James Dyson. Please. Make love to—”
He didn’t let her finish. Capturing her plea with his mouth, he kissed her, lowering the zipper of his fly as he did so. His engorged length sprang free of his chinos, straining against his boxers. Before he could lower them, she did, hooking her toes beneath their waistband and dragging them down over his hips and butt and thighs.
The room’s air kissed his bare legs and balls a heartbeat before Sienna took his erection in her hand.
He tore away from the kiss, looking down at her. “I don’t know what I was doing with my life until I met you, Si.”
“Me, either,” she answered with a soft throaty laugh that almost undid him.
Closing his fingers around hers, he held her stare, aligning the tip of his flesh to her entry. “You are nothing like I thought you were.”
And with that, he sank into her with one fluid thrust.
They moved together, their rhythm a beautiful harmony, their bodies fitting together with sublime perfection.
He stroked into her over and over, gazing into her eyes, reveling in the pleasure he saw burning in them.
Pleasure he gave her. Him. James Dyson. A man who made it his mission in life to take pleasure, not give it.
They came together, silent except for their breathing, their stares locked, their fingers threaded, their bodies moving as one.
As her walls contracted around his embedded length in fading pulses, he closed his eyes and rested his forehead against hers. “I like who I am when I’m with you,” he confessed. “Thank you.”
She smoothed her fingers up his back. “You don’t like who you are when you’re not?”
He raised his head, finding her frowning at him. “I can be a bit of an arrogant bastard.”
She laughed. “A bit?”
He pouted.
She laughed again, trialing her fingertips up his back. “Leave the arrogant bastard at the office, and we’ll get along just fine.”
His heart thumped up into his throat. He had to tell her. He wanted to get along fine with her, not just here in her studio, but everywhere. He wanted to be with her completely. He couldn’t do that without being truthful with her.
“Si?”
She frowned. “Yes?”