I know I shouldn’t let it happen.
Because I know the moment I do, Pandora’s Box will fly open, and there is no force on Earth strong enough to close it again. Yet I am powerless to stop it.
My pulse quickens when he stands, his frame towering over me by at least ten inches. His hand cups my cheek, the tip of his thumb grazing my parted lips as he traces my jawline. Then he grips the back of my neck, bringing his head down so that his lips rest on the top of my head. I can feel his hot breath against my scalp. His other hand drifts down my throat and inside the open buttons at the top of my dress.
“You should really be more careful,” he tells me as he cups my breast. His voice is like silk.
I can’t reply. I can only feel.
My chest heaves with every rapid breath, while my body anticipates his next move. His fingertips skim a hard nipple through the black lace fabric of my bra, and my body quivers.
This is happening. How is this happening?
He’s touching me. And I am letting him. Dear God, am I letting him. And I like it.I really like it.
I’ve always heard there’s a thin line between love and hate. What people neglect to say is that it’s a line wrapped in passion and held together by lust.
Right now, we’re not walking on that line. That line is coiling around us, tethering us together, binding us until I can’t breathe.
His breath maintains a calm and steady rhythm as he explores my body, never once indicating he’s as nervous as I am. He inhales the tropical scent of my shampoo then lifts his head and looks at me. Everything about the way he’s touching me is a complete contradiction to my idea of him, of who I thought he was. His touch is gentle. Reverent. There’s a calm control to his movements, even though I get the feeling he’s just as conflicted about this as I am. I see it in his eyes when he moves his head and looks down at me.
Before I can stop him, he grabs my dress and begins popping the remaining buttons open, slowly, one by one, like they’re nothing. They don’t matter. Pop. Pop. Pop. The tiny plastic circles fall to the floor, rolling under the desk and disappearing into corners until I am fully exposed to him.
He separates the material then takes a step back to examine me—standing here like a Stepford wife with my dress split open, modeling my bra and panties. Closing the gap between us, he leans forward and brings his mouth to my ear.
“You’re every bit as beautiful as I thought you’d be,” he says, the sound drawing me back from euphoria. His voice is inexplicably polished, as if he knows exactly what to say and the right time to say it. His breath against my skin makes my stomach flutter.
“You’ve thought about me?” I ask, surprised at his admission, more surprised that I found my voice. I’ve thought about him too. Had dreams about him, even. But none of them ever went quite like this.
I thought he hated me.
He isn’t touching me like he hates me.
“Sssshh.” He lifts his head and brings a single finger to his lips.
It’s a simple command my body gives me no choice but to obey.
Then he slips my dress off one shoulder and begins to leave a scorching trail of tender kisses from my shoulder to my collarbone, across my chest, and to the swell of my breast.
Oh my God, this is so wrong, so very wrong.
Then why does it feel so very right?
His hands skim over my ribs, stopping at my tattoo. There’s a quiet regard in his eyes as he traces each letter.
L-O-S-T.
He swallows hard then continues his expedition of my body, his mouth hovering over my skin until he’s on his knees in front of me. He—Cal Suppato—is on his knees in front of me. This can’t be real.
I close my eyes and revel in the feeling of his hot breath just below my belly button. He draws in a deep breath through his nose then lets it out slowly.
“You’re soaking wet, Makenna. I can smell it.”
My body instinctively writhes in front of him, silently begging him to touch me. Please.
“Open your eyes. Look at me,” he says.
My eyes pop open at his request, and he rises to his feet. I bring my hand to his chest and start to unbutton his navy-blue shirt, but he grabs my wrists.