Beneath the Stetson. Janice Maynard

told you how much your ugly suits turn me on?”

      Bailey melted into him. “My suits are not ugly. They’re professional.” Her tongue mated lazily with his, hardening his sex to the point of pain. Of all the dumb ideas he’d ever had, this one ranked right up near the top. The door wasn’t locked. Though no one was likely to disturb them, their current behavior was risky at best.

      He kissed his way down her throat, toying with the buttons on her silky top. Bailey’s eyes were closed, her lips parted. More than anything he wanted to bend her over his desk and take her hard and fast. Lust wrapped his brain in a red haze. His hands trembled as he found his way past her blouse to her breasts covered in lace.

      Each soft mound was a full, perfect weight in his hand. He squeezed gently, shuddering when Bailey’s low moan went straight to his gut and stoked the fire. He was rapidly reaching the point of no return. The problem with long bouts of celibacy was that a man tended to go a little insane when the woman he wanted was in touching distance.

      “Tell me to stop,” he pleaded.

      Her hands tore at the lapels of his jacket. He helped her remove it and tossed it aside. He was burning up from the inside out.

      “Touch my skin,” she pleaded.

      How could he say no? Each delicate nipple furled tightly as he stroked her with reverence. He lifted her onto the desk. Now he could reach her with his mouth. Shoving aside the gossamer cups of her bra, he first licked her, then suckled her, growing more and more hungry with every second that passed.

      Her hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer. “Bailey. Bailey...” He didn’t even know what he wanted to say.

      “Gil,” her voice was little more than a whisper.

      He inhaled sharply, close to begging. “What?”

      “I think we have to stop. I don’t want to, but we’re at the club.”

      “At the club?” He could barely make sense of the words. He needed to be inside her more than he needed to breathe.

      She shoved him, her two hands braced on his shoulders. “Stop, Gil. Please.”

      At last her protest penetrated the fog that bound him. He staggered backward, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. It hurt to look at her. He leaned against the file cabinet, burying his face in his arm. Agony ripped through him. He had caged the tiger that was his lust for too long, and now the animal was free.