By instinct, I reach out to steady her and my hands rest on her waist. Why is it that's the first thing I grab on a woman? There's a thrill of electricity that goes through me when I realize I'm touching her. I'm literally holding her in my hands. It takes me right back to her audition—her on my lap—my hands on her hips, her ass, her breasts.
I'm so distracted by the fact that I have her hips in each of my hands that I forget what I even wanted to say. My mind's erased everything prior to this moment.
"I—uh—I was hoping to find you," she says. "These are great photos."
"Those are my parents. They're dead."
"I'm so sorry," she says.
"Don't be. It happened years ago."
The way she's looking at me right now makes me want to press my lips to hers. I want to take her over my shoulder in animalistic lust. I'm already mentally undressing her. Can you blame me?
It takes me a moment to remember that we're both standing here in my office. Her hand is on my chest, and she keeps it there. My heartbeat increases with anticipation.
I should let go of her hips—I should walk away—maybe help her out of the building and into her car or something. I'm now her employer. This should be the one woman I don't go for—she's an Illicit Entertainment employee now. I have enough of those women around here. And yet …
But I don't move. For some reason, I remain in that position. I can't seem to help myself. There's a moment of silence before I speak.
"I see you like the parents, but what about this mug shot?" I ask with a smile, pointing to my face.
"Not bad, I suppose," she says with a smirk. "Those lips of yours are looking especially delicious right now." As she says this, she brings one hand up to my face and brushes her fingers across my bottom lip, tracing its edges. My cock twitches at her advancement. I'm already growing hard under her slight touches.
"You'd be surprised what these lips can do," I say.
"You think so?"
"I know so," I reply, my eyes locked on hers. Our gaze intensifies, and I'm not sure what's going to happen next. The room feels at least ten degrees hotter.
"Are you flirting with me?" she asks. It's a loaded question. I can tell by the smile on her face.
"If I were flirting with you," I say, "I would reach into my desk over there, pull out the bottle of rare top-shelf bourbon that I've hidden, buried underneath a stack of files—a bottle that I've been saving for a woman like you—and I would drizzle it down your chest."
"What else would you do?" she asks, her eyes smoldering with desire. She's breathing heavier now. The air around us is thick with longing.
"If I were actually flirting, I'd reach down and place my lips and tongue on your breasts, licking the bourbon off of your bare nipples before traveling down the rest of your body."
Her lips part into a smile. "I like a man with a plan," she says, ginning. She's raking her nails through my hair and when they touch my scalp, an electric current runs down my spine. "That's a map I can follow."
I lean in, bringing my lips an inch from her ear and whisper, "What I'd like to do to you right now is anything but professional. And given my position in the company, I'm not sure that's wise."
She doesn't move; her one hand is still on my chest. There's an electric current binding us together, and it's palpable. It's like someone has flipped a switch and it's an unbreakable circuit. I almost detect a moan from her lips, but it's so soft that I can't be certain.
I lean in again, my breath on her neck, and I move my mouth down to her exposed shoulders, dragging my lips across her bare skin. This time her moan is audible and loaded with an insatiable craving.
As soon as my breath hits her neck, and my mouth touches her shoulder, her lips part. I want to grab her hair and bring her mouth to mine.
Instead, I slide my right hand around to the small of her lower back. She doesn't resist my touch. I feel her moving in closer, and I take that as my cue to move my hand from her back, even lower. I move below her waist now, and cup her ass cheek in my firm palm.
"Ethan Kane," she whispers. "I guess what they say about you is true."
"And what's that?" I ask.
"That you're larger than life," she says. "And you're hotter than a lightening rod."
"I'm seconds away from picking you up, placing you over one shoulder, and carrying you out of this place—caveman style—and show you exactly what kind of fucking rod I'm packing"
"Now, that wouldn't be very professional," she grins. I read her grin like a dare.