This feels too intimate somehow, too personal. I painted this for him in a moment of gratitude, but standing here watching his reaction, seeing the raw emotion flickering across his handsome features, it feels like I've revealed something I shouldn't have. Something that crosses a line I didn't even realize I was approaching. "It's nothing..."
"This is amazing. How did you do this? What medium is this? I assumed you were talented, but this... this is fantastic," he goes on. "And I'm not just saying that to be nice."
I smile. "It's mixed media: acrylic, pastels, ink and cut-up magazines."
He shakes his head, his gaze still locked on the canvas. "Amazing."
He then sets the painting gently back in the back of his car and turns back to me, something raw and vulnerable flickering across his features. Before I can process what's happening, his hands are grabbing my face, and his mouth is on mine.
I should push him away. I should remember the promises I made to myself tonight, that this is wrong on every level. But God, the way he kisses me--slow and deep and desperate, like he's been starving for this moment. His lips are warm and soft, and when his tongue touches mine, I melt against him completely.
My hands find the lapels of his suit jacket, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away like I should. He tastes like wine and sex, and every rational thought in my head evaporates.
When his hand slides up my thigh, finding the hem of my dress, I don't stop him. I can't My body responds instantly, heat pooling low in my belly as his fingers brush against the silk of my underwear.
"Jesus, Jenna," he breathes against my mouth as he explores me deeper. "You're already so wet for me."
I am.
I'm aching for him in a way that terrifies the hell out of me.
His fingers trace the lace edge of my panties, sending shivers down my spine. They don't just trace--they tease, dragging along the delicate lace with maddening slowness, hooking under the elastic just enough to make my stomach clench before retreating again.
A smirk plays at the corner of his mouth, dark and knowing, like he can hear the way my breath hitches every time he pulls back, like he's memorizing the exact degree my hips tilt toward him in silent begging.
He's drawing this out on purpose, letting the anticipation coil tighter inside me, and the worst part? The shameful, delicious part?
I love it. I love the way my skin prickles under his touch, love the way my body betrays me by arching into him even as my mind screams at me to stop. Love the way he watches me unravel with nothing more than a flick of his fingertips against the damp fabric clinging to me.
He's not just touching me--he's toying with me, and I'm powerless to do anything but melt into it, my lips parted, my pulse hammering in my throat like a trapped thing desperate to be set free.
"God, I should go," I tell him softly. He knows these are only words. He knows he has complete control over me. I couldn't go even if my life depended on it. And it does... my life as I know it.
"I want to have you right here in the backseat of my car," he whispers against my ear, his voice rough with need.
A shiver runs through me. My breath catches in my throat, sharp and uneven. Every rational thought screams at me to stop, to pull away, to remember who I am and what I stand to lose.
But then his hand slides deeper, harder against my wet pussy, and all those warnings dissolve into static. I know I shouldn't. I know this is reckless, selfish, a betrayal of everything I've built with Reeves.
I can't stand it. The promise of what's coming--it's too much. I know I should be stronger. I should walk away. But right now, with his breath hot against my neck and his fingers rubbing me into oblivion, I don't want to be strong. I want to be his. I want him to make me come.
Even if it's just for this stolen moment in the back of his car, with the world outside forgotten and the consequences waiting like a shadow at the edge of my mind. I want him so badly it hurts.
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