Almost again
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- Parts 8
He unzipped my wet jumpsuit, and it fell to the floor in a soft, soaked heap.
He was standing behind me-close, but not touching.
Suddenly, I was bare, except for the thin layer of fabric covering my chest and underwear that barely held onto my dignity.
His fingers trailed along the sides of my shoulders, outlining the shape of me with a featherlight touch. His skin on mine felt like fire-slow, deliberate fire.
He ran his fingers down my arms, circling gently at my elbows. His other hand moved my damp hair over my shoulder, and his touch grazed the nape of my neck, then down to my collarbone.
Then, he held me. Not possessively-but like he was anchoring himself to something that might slip away.
He leaned his forehead against the back of my head, breathing deep.
"I need to go back to work," he said, voice thick, gruff.
"I'll see you tomorrow."
A pause.
"Please lock the door behind you."
And just like that, he turned and walked away.
I wanted to stop him.
I wanted him to stay.
But I was dating his cousin.
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He swiped my sweat-soaked hair off my neck, resting his lips against my ear. His fiery breaths blew across my earlobe. My body shuddered once again, craving more of him. "You're not the first woman to think she could seduce me into bed because of who I am, what I write. And you won't be the last." He gave a small chuckle, pulling down my dress, so it covered me. "But," he said in a low growl, "so far...... you're my favorite." Breaths poured from my lips at those words. My heart fluttered inside my pounding chest. His favorite, my brain stuck to his words like glue. Clinging to the small hope we'd continue this somewhere else, more than once. We stayed in that position for a moment before his body heat disappeared from my back. He lit a cigarette in front of me, the flash of the lighter illuminating his flushed, sweat-soaked face. I leaned against the brick wall, finding comfort in the coolness against my heated skin. His eyes met mine again. I didn't think I could move from the spot, but he forced me to when he held up a red, lacy thong in between his fingers. My red lacy thong. Fucking panty thief! ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Their worlds collided in a heated, passion-filled hook-up behind a bar, bringing their broken pieces together. And now? Mercy finds herself as C.J. Cole's intern. The very Mr. Cole who wrote the most romantic, erotic books she had ever laid eyes on. How could she manage to keep her panties on around him? Or control herself? Hint: she won't. Mature warning.
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